Nancy is back in the interrogation room.
It’s late at night. Earlier today, she told the female police officer that she needed to talk to someone, but hours passed before the woman led her down the hall, back to the interrogation room.
The agent in charge is already there, waiting.
His tie and suit jacket are gone, and his collar, now open, has yellowed with sweat and dust. His hair is disheveled, and his eyes have dark crescent moons beneath them. Despite how exhausted he obviously is, his expression is as alert as when she first spoke to him.
“I’m ready to tell you everything I know,” Nancy says. “I didn’t do anything and I didn’t know what Danny was up to.”
The agent gives her a look that silences her.
“We found Stephen Small,” he says.
“Good,” she says. “Thank God.”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh no,” she says. “That’s awful.”
“When you and Danny concocted this scheme, whose idea was it?”
Nancy stares at him, dumbfounded.
“I told you,” she says. “I had no—”
“Yeah, yeah,” the agent says. “You just happened to go for a ride with Danny late at night to get your bicycle fixed. And then he called the guy and it turned out he couldn’t fix the bike after all. You expect us to believe that?”
“It’s the truth,” she says, and then clarifies, “That’s what Danny told me anyway.”
The agent leans in and puts his elbows on the table. His glasses have gotten progressively dirtier as the day has gone on, and he stares at her through smudged lenses.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk about the truth. Danny told us that you picked him up after he buried Stephen Small alive.”
Nancy goes cold.
“That’s true,” she says quietly.
“So you knew he was burying Stephen Small out in the sand hills?”
“No!” she says, practically yelling. “I picked him up. I didn’t know what he was doing.”
The agent smirks and shakes his head disapprovingly.
Nancy knows how ridiculous it sounds. She picked Danny up late at night in the middle of nowhere, and the agent is supposed to believe she didn’t know what she was doing there. She can hardly believe it herself. What was she thinking trusting Danny?
“You told us before that you were sleeping. Oh, wait.” He consults his notes. “You told us you were watching a video. Oh, wait, you told us both lies.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, flustered, unsure what more to say.
“Which is it?” the agent says. “Were you sleeping? Watching a video? Or helping your drug-dealing boyfriend commit felony kidnapping?”
“No,” Nancy blurts out. “None of those.”
“So what’s your story now?”
Nancy takes a deep breath.
“I picked Danny up,” she says. “I didn’t know what he was doing. I didn’t want to know. If I had any idea he was kidnapping someone, I never would have gone along. I would have run as far away from him as I could.”
“Lady,” the agent says, “you should have gotten as far away from him as you could a long time ago. But you didn’t. You knew he was a drug dealer and you stayed with him. Why would I believe you didn’t know about this?”
The agent rises and clears his throat.
“Nancy Rish, you are under arrest for the kidnapping and murder of Stephen Small. You have the right to remain silent—”
“No,” Nancy says, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Yes, you did,” the agent says. “You helped Danny Edwards kidnap and murder Stephen Small.”
He continues reciting the Miranda rights, but Nancy doesn’t hear him. She’s too preoccupied crying. She puts her head in her hands and sobs.
She can think of only one thing.
Her son growing up without a mother.