A loud knock on my front door startles me, and I drop my pen. I’ve finally settled down to grading papers.
My first thought is Dana, although that’s unlikely. I just got home from her place forty minutes ago.
She’s only stopped by here once, bearing a housewarming gift soon after I moved in. It was a basket of European cheeses, crackers, and chutneys from a deli I can’t afford. Her visit embarrassed us both: me because my place is a dump, and her due to the contrast. After that, we’ve stuck to cafés or meeting at Winderlea.
Another knock. Perhaps it’s my landlady, who lives upstairs. Although that’s doubtful. She’s a stickler for decorum and calls first.
I check my watch. It’s past 9:00 p.m. Fearing the noise will wake Ruby, I scurry down the short hall. When I open the door, cool night air rushes in. I keep the chain on and peer through the gap, ready to slam the door shut.
Three concrete steps descend to my basement door. On the narrow slab out front stand two people, shoulder to shoulder. Dana barely described them, but I know who they are: the detectives on Stan’s case.
I frown through the gap. “Can I help you?”
The man speaks. “Are you Joanna Dykstra?”
“Yes?”
He raises a badge, as on TV. “I’m Detective Bellows, and this is Detective Shergold.” His chin tips toward his partner. “May we come in? It’s about Stanley McFarlane.”
I frown harder. “Dana’s husband, Stan?” Although I expected them sooner or later, I feel unprepared. “I don’t see how I can help you.”
“It won’t take long,” says the woman. “May we come in, please?”
I unlock the chain and step back. “Please keep your voices down.” I lower mine to demonstrate, my please as pointed as hers. “My daughter’s asleep.”
I have to press myself against the wall to let them squeeze past. “Straight ahead,” I whisper. “Into the kitchen.” I follow them down the short hall.
The apartment came fully furnished. The kitchen’s much like my mom’s back in our trailer: hotplates instead of a stove, a fridge that’s noisy and narrow. I motion them toward the ugly Formica table, then offer tea or coffee.
“Just water, please,” says Bellows. Shergold nods.
These cops remind me of some of my students’ miffed parents who mask their complaints with passive-aggressive politeness.
I walk to the sink and wait for the tap to run clear. I fill three glasses with water.
Detective Shergold takes a seat. Made of aluminum, the kitchen chairs are flimsy.
“We’ll be recording this, for our files,” says her partner. He sits and places a device on the table.
“How old is your daughter?” he begins, after I’ve joined them. It sounds conversational, something to break the ice. Everyone knows women love to gab about their kids. He’d be complimenting my shoes if I weren’t sock footed. He must be the Good Cop.
“She’s five,” I say. I suspect he already knows Ruby’s age, knows far too much about me. Do they know about my tragic addiction to home decor TikTok? And how I still google Trevor? “The same age as Dana’s daughter, Zoe.”
“How well do you know the McFarlanes?” asks Shergold. Her eyes are bright and canny.
I reach for my water glass. She’s the smart one.
The questions are what I’d expect: backstory of how I know Stan and Dana, inching toward my impressions of their marriage.
“Did they seem happy?” asks Detective Bellows.
“Yes. Sure.” I say it with a touch of hesitation.
“Did Dana tell you she suspected Stan of having an affair?”
I shift in my seat, as if reluctant to break Dana’s confidence, and yet . . . they are the police. I can’t lie to them. “Yes.”
“Did you believe her?” asks Detective Shergold. Her hands are neatly clasped on the edge of the table, like someone saying Grace before dinner.
“Absolutely,” I say. “Dana’s not the jealous type. If she felt something was up, I believe her.”
“Did he ever hit on you?” asks Shergold, her eyes calm below those blunt bangs.
I snort. “No! I’m Dana’s best friend. Of course not!” I’d also never be Stan’s type. Not in a million years. He liked women who got noticed.
“Did you know they were discussing divorce?”
I take a sip of cool water. I could admit that I didn’t know, but pride stops me. Why did she hide that? But I know why: even to me, Dana couldn’t bear to admit things weren’t perfect. Did she tell Angie? She wouldn’t. They’re not real friends. Dana didn’t call Angie for help that night, she called me. I take a deep breath. Focus. “Yes. Stan told Dana he wanted to split up. She was . . .” I take another sip. It’s vital to choose my words carefully, to paint Dana as heartbroken yet hopeful, not livid and vengeful. “She was hurt. But she didn’t believe it. She thought they’d work it out.” I believe this.
“Even though she thought he was cheating?”
“Lots of marriages survive that,” I say. Although mine didn’t. “They have three beautiful children. And they were a good team.” How many clichés can I fit into this conversation? I decide to add one more: “Couples get through rocky patches.”
Detective Shergold nods. Her face looks bland, her eyes on my scarred table. Suddenly they pop up to poke me in the face. “Why were you there that night?” she asks smoothly.
I flinch. Either Dana told them or they’ve spoken to those other detectives, the ones on Alma’s case. If they’ve put things together, they must suspect me of something. It’s too big a coincidence, me involved in both cases. Yet coincidence is what it is. What shit luck. Coincidences happen.
I try not to freeze, yet my jaw has locked solid. It takes a beat to unclench it. “Dana called me. She was upset. Crying. I drove over.”
Detective Bellows smiles encouragingly. “What time was this?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “It was late. I was asleep when she called me.” They can check our phone records.
A glare from Shergold. “And what did you find when you got there?”
“Stan was gone. They’d had a fight.” I shake my head. “He hit her.”
Detective Bellows looks suitably somber. He leans forward and quietly asks, “Did you know that her husband was abusive?”
I shake my head hard. “No!” This is actually true. “It wasn’t like that. Stan never hit Dana before. There’s no way she’d have put up with it. Dana’s . . .” I throw up my hands. It’s hard to put into words. “She’s strong. And she knows her own worth. She’d never have stayed in an abusive marriage.” Of all tonight’s lies, these glide most easily off my tongue. Before I learned otherwise, I’d have sworn this was true. I take a deep breath, reel myself back. “That night. It sounds like Stan snapped,” I say. “I mean, from what Dana told me, he lost it. I guess he’d been drinking . . .” I blink at Detective Bellows. “Not that that’s an excuse. There’s no excuse. You saw her face. But no, that was the first time he hurt her. Maybe Stan had some sort of breakdown. He wasn’t a bad guy. Not really!”
They don’t respond to this.
Shergold must make some sign I don’t catch because Bellows pockets the recorder. “Thank you for your time.” He stands up. Detective Shergold and I rise with him.
That went well, I think, which is when Shergold turns and asks, “Why do you think he’s dead?” There’s a smile in her voice when she says it.
Right away, I realize my mistake. I was speaking about Stan in past tense. The ultimate rookie-killer slipup. What a moron.
I’m short, but Detective Shergold is even shorter. I gape down at her: “Pardon?”
“You teach English,” she says. “I’d expect tenses to matter to you. And yet you said they ‘were a good team’ and he ‘wasn’t a bad guy.’”
I give her my best “really?” scowl, the one I use when my students are trying—and failing—to be clever. “We were discussing the past,” I say. “And he did have an affair, bash his wife, and abscond! I’d hardly say he’s a great guy.”
Detective Shergold smiles. “Abscond,” she says, like I’ve used a good word.
We walk single file down the narrow hall. At the door, Detective Bellows stops. Shergold and I do too. She turns my way. “Where would he go, a guy like Stanley?”
“He’s rich. He could go anywhere.”
“Hmmmm.”
Bellows opens the door. The night air feels good against my face. I realize I’m sweating. “Thanks for your time,” he tells me.
Shergold smiles. “We’ve taken a lot of your time, of late. I mean, the police.” She sounds anything but sympathetic. “What bad luck, you being the one to find Mrs. Reyes.”
I freeze. A rush of heat travels through me. “I . . . Y-yes,” I stammer. “That poor woman. It’s just awful.”
Detective Shergold buttons her coat. “You stayed at Dana’s a long time, if you were driving home at six nineteen in the morning.”
I nod, unsure how to respond. The silence hangs heavy.
Detective Shergold pulls her keys from her pocket. “What did you do all night long?”
“We sat up talking.”
She tilts her head. “Yet you were meant to work in the morning.” She tucks her hair behind one ear. It’s unpierced, which is unusual. Most women have pierced ears.
I did mine myself, age thirteen, with a needle. I lacked the money to do them at the mall with Dana.
We all wait. The silence expands to the point where I can’t bear it. “Dana was distraught,” I say. “She kept begging me to stay.”
Shergold’s smile widens. “What a good friend you are.”
I pretend to smile. I hate this lady.
With a nod, she steps through the doorway and precedes Bellows up to ground level. My front door is set on the side of the house, in a narrow gap facing the neighbor’s. They have teenage sons. Music’s pounding in their basement rec room.
Heart clattering, I watch the detectives walk to their car, which is as gray and unremarkable as Detective Shergold. I wait until it drives off. It has a powerful engine.
I shut and lock the door. I lean against the wall. Drawing breath, I tell myself to calm down. Those cops were fishing. Everything will be fine if we stick to the story.
If someone saw us moving Stan’s corpse, we’d already be locked up. The police have nothing on us, not even a body.
As for Alma, I did the right thing by stopping. That should count for something. Some good karma, at least. God knows I need it.