me of puke. Life on the inside isn’t so bad. No worse than being stuck in a doctor’s office. It’s more purgatory than hell.
My gaze drifts to the hallway, waiting for her to return. A few people pass by and one stops. Jonas waves timidly at me from the other side of the glass. He’s dressed in sweats and t-shirt, and dark hair is plastered to his sweaty forehead. I can imagine Officer Mobie rolling up to greet him at the lacrosse field. The sport is his one true love no matter what Monroe thinks. Jonas left this morning, too, which means they’ll want his statement. Thank God Hugo is on a plane.
If Jonas was there, he might remember more than I did. I stand up and walk toward the door. Since he’s so close to the family there’s a good chance that he’ll know more than I’ve been told, but as I reach for the handle, Monroe appears.
I shrink away. Not because I don’t want her to see me, but because of how she looks. Monroe once came to a big lacrosse match with the flu and no one knew until she threw up all over the referee. She doesn’t do public appearances without full hair and make-up. Today she’s a mess though. Mascara remnants ring her eyes and her golden locks are thrown into an unbrushed ponytail. Jonas wraps his arms around her and she melts against him.
I’ve never seen her look so small or so vulnerable.
Backing up from the door, I accidentally catch her eye. She shoves Jonas away and points at the window. Detective Mackey rushes toward her, and although I can’t hear what’s being said, I can guess from the scarlet shade Monroe turns as she continues to yell. After a few minutes of enduring her mute, tonsil gymnastics, Jonas coaxes her away from the window.
Detective Mackey ducks back into the interview room, setting a file folder on the table. strait-laced It’s a state I like to call the Monroe effect.
“You have a fan,” she says.
“We just love each other.” I can only hope her curiosity doesn’t extend to more questions about my relationship with Monroe.
“She seemed confused as to why you're here. According to her, you were asked to leave the party.” Mackey waits with her finger poised on the folder’s edge.
Maybe I should start sewing my scarlet M now. Uninvited party guest? Check. Don’t know the full name of my alibi? Check. Caught sneaking out by doting boyfriend? Check. I might convict myself.
“She did ask me to leave, but I got lost looking for my friend.”
“That’s how you met Jameson. Did he ask you to stay?”
“He’s very persuasive.” The truth is that he didn’t convince me at all. He didn’t ask me to stay with him or raid the Wests’ pantry or swim in their pool. Thanks to him I’d left a trail of fingerprints that Hansel and Gretel could follow all over that penthouse.
“Can you tell me who this is?” She flips open the folder to a picture of Jameson. Just not my Jameson.
It’s him, but not the boy I met last night. He’s smiling in this picture, dressed in a button-down and pressed slacks, as he stands in front of a very expensive looking sports car. He seems happy but as I study the picture, I spot the distance in his eyes. They’re vacant as if he’s simply going through the motions. But the most puzzling aspect of the photo is that his arm is around Monroe. She’s beaming at the camera, hugging him tightly.
“That's Jameson,” I answer in a quiet voice, pushing the photo back to her. I don’t want it to be the truth.
Mackey purses her lips and looks to the mirror on the other side of the room.
“Is someone behind that? Like on TV?” I wave at it. I’ve been here for over an hour and I have more questions than answers. I hope whoever is back there has more figured out than I do. “Do I pass the test?”
“Yes, you do as a matter of fact.”
I turn back to her. “I was only joking. I tend to eat foot when I'm nervous.”
“You're free to go, Emma.” She puts the photo back into the folder and stands up.
“Wait. That's it?” I’d expected hours of grilling. Maybe a light or two shined in my face. Now she’s saying I can just walk out of here.
She stops at the door and peers over at me. Distrust flashes in her eyes