“Millie,” he says, “one thing I know about Enzo Accardi is that he is a good guy. I don’t think he would kill anyone. But if he did, it would be for a damn good reason.”
That is not untrue.
“Don’t overreact to this,” he advises me. “Your neighbor just got murdered. Of course they’re going to want to question you. The sooner they find the person who did this, the sooner it will be over.” He pauses. “But don’t tell them about the blood on his hands.”
If I had a dime for every time I lied to the police, I wouldn’t have to worry about mortgage payments.
FORTY-SIX
I had been considering keeping the kids home from school today, but if Enzo and I are both going to the police station, there’s no way to do that. I’m not bringing my children to a police station. My wish is that neither of them ever have to set foot in a police station for their entire lives. (Except possibly for a school trip. That would be okay, I suppose.)
Even Nico manages to get ready for school without much protest or fuss. They are both uncharacteristically silent while they choke down a few bites of cereal, which seems appropriate given the gravity of what happened. I haven’t been walking them to the bus stop in the morning, but I do it today, just to make sure everything goes smoothly.
Unfortunately, Janice and Spencer are waiting at the bus stop when we arrive. Janice is wearing her usual nightgown and slippers, and it takes all my self-restraint not to wrap my fingers around her skinny little neck. This woman basically told the police she thought my husband killed a man. That’s not exactly neighborly.
We don’t say one word to each other while we wait for the bus to arrive. And that’s fine with me.
“Mommy,” Nico says. It pulls on my heartstrings because he hasn’t called me that in years. “Do I have to go to school today?”
I wish I could keep him with me, close to my side. But that’s impossible. “I’m sorry, honey. I have… something I need to do.”
“Can I go with you?”
“I… I’m afraid not.”
His lower lip trembles slightly. Nico hasn’t cried in public in a long time, but I’m worried it’s about to happen.
“I’m so sorry,” I say quickly. “But I’ll be home when you get back from school. I promise.”
“Can I play with Spencer?” he asks hopefully.
Spencer’s eyes light up at the suggestion. “Can we, Mama?”
Janice looks like she’s about to have a stroke. I’m not thrilled about the idea either after what Janice said to the police about my husband, although I’d allow it just to make Nico feel better. But that doesn’t seem like a possibility.
“Spencer,” Janice says sharply. “I told you after Nicolas was suspended from school for fighting that you were not to spend time with him ever again.”
Wait, what?
I barely have time to be furious with Janice for talking like that right in front of Nico. Because what she just said can’t be right. Nico went over to Spencer’s house the day before the beach trip. And a few times since then as well. At least that’s what he told me…
“Nico,” I say sharply, “I thought Mrs. Archer said you could play in the backyard with Spencer?”
“I said no such thing!” she barks. “Did I, Spencer?”
Spencer nods in agreement, eager to please, and that’s when a look of guilt comes over my son’s face. Janice never told him he could play in their backyard. And considering how vigilant she is, there’s no way he was playing there with Spencer without her knowledge. So that means…
“Nico, come over here.” I tug him by the arm until we are several yards away, and he dutifully follows. I drop my voice enough that Janice won’t hear me. “Where have you been going when you leave the house?”
“Nowhere,” he says quickly. “I’ve just been playing out on the street. Alone.”
Except if that’s all he was doing, why did he lie about it?
“I just wanted to be alone,” he adds. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
I don’t believe him. There’s something more to this story that he’s not telling me. But at that moment, the school bus arrives, and this time, Nico is only too eager to climb aboard. I watch as the bus carries my children away, wondering if I will ever get answers to the questions swirling around my head.
FORTY-SEVEN
Even though I knew it was coming, it’s unsettling that the first thing that happens when we get to the police station is that they put me and Enzo in separate rooms.
Of course they want to separate us. They don’t want us to be able to coordinate our stories. It makes sense, but at the same time, it gets me panicky. The fact that they feel a need to separate us makes me think that they’re not just questioning us as next-door neighbors of the victim. They are considering us actual suspects.
I sit in the poorly lit interrogation room, squirming in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. I imagine my husband sitting in a similar room somewhere else in the station, and I wonder what he’s thinking. He has barely spoken to me since the phone call I made this morning. I didn’t tell him that I admitted to Ramirez that he came home with blood on his hands.
My other piece of evidence that we might be in trouble is that Detective Willard himself is the one who saunters into the room to talk to me. He didn’t send one of his minions. He wants to talk to me himself. Personally.
That’s not good.
“Mrs. Accardi.” He drops into the seat across from me. He has bags under his eyes, and the lighting in the room almost makes them look like bruises. “Thanks for coming by.”
“No problem.” I try to sound as much as I can like a woman who isn’t scared that she and her husband are being accused of murder. “We just want to find out who did this to Jonathan. It’s so awful. He seemed like a really nice guy.”
“Don’t worry,” Willard says. “We’re going to find out who did this.”
Why does it sound like a threat?
“Am I a suspect?” I ask.
