Bechdel swung the door of the interview room open. Her partner sat inside, sipping a Styrofoam cup of coffee. The two seats across from him were already filled.
Joyce sat in the left-hand chair, her hands folded meekly on her lap and a lilac cardigan slung over her shoulders, as though she were in a drafty restaurant waiting for her meal to arrive.
Next to her was a woman Simon had only seen in a photograph, younger and less polished. Her face was pained, her eyes rimmed red. She clutched a lace handkerchief in her palm. Like a Southern Belle, Simon thought.
His mind skirted along the edges of reason.
“Did you call our lawyer?” Joyce asked Simon, as though she were asking if he’d picked up milk on the way home.
He was too late. His wife had beaten him to it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE JOYCE
She wasn’t quite sure how they’d ended up at the police station. She was only certain this was exactly where they both needed to be—she and Susan. Having Simon show up was a happy coincidence, one she could work with. Joyce just needed to think it through.
But before that, she needed to get through this interview and ensure Susan was safely handled.
Joyce left her gun in the car, tucked away in the folds of her glove compartment like a 1970s crime boss. She’d sent Susan in ahead, while she parked, and Susan was more than happy to sneak out the door and secretly smoke a cigarette before they went inside together. Joyce didn’t know why people felt the need to hide their true natures so poorly. Either let them out in full color or bury them deep—but you should choose one or the other.
“Have a seat.” Detective Bechdel gestured to Simon while Kirkpatrick pulled up a chair.
Joyce assessed her husband. He did not look well. His shirt was partially untucked, his eyes sunken into his face, and his hands and neck chaffed, she assumed, from scrubbing at the blood splattered onto him from the robbery. Kirkpatrick was placing an additional chair on the side of Susan, but Joyce stood up as though to help and moved it to her side. Simon sat down in her chair, and she took her spot beside him. Underneath the table, her hand sought his.
“I don’t think you’ve met,” Joyce told Simon. “This is Susan. Her brother was that young man killed in the hotel last week. We met by chance at the nail salon yesterday.”
Joyce purposefully placed her left hand on the table, so everyone could see her fresh manicure. So often a story was in the details. She glanced over at Susan, and luckily she wasn’t a nail biter—her coat of dark polish was still immaculate.
“Why are you here?” Simon’s voice was still resonant, but Joyce caught the warning at its edge.
She locked her eyes on him, not wanting to bring Simon more pain but also relishing the moment. “They need to rule out suspects for Trina’s death, and Susan reached out to me because we were together yesterday. I’m her alibi.”
“And she’s yours,” Simon replied.
“Not that I need one.” Joyce allowed herself to bristle at Simon’s unfurling nastiness. It would help the detectives believe what she needed them to think.
“Of course you don’t.” Simon turned to the detectives, who were sitting back and watching the show.
And that’s when Joyce’s husband finally, and truly, surprised her.
“I’d like to make a confession,” he said. “There’s no need to look for witnesses or alibis. I did it. I killed them both.”
Joyce’s heart thudded against the cave of her chest. Why was he doing this?
“You couldn’t have hurt either of them,” Joyce said crisply, willing her body and her mind to behave. “You and I were together.”
“Well, hang on.” Detective Kirkpatrick pretended to reference his notes in a small notepad he pulled up from the table. “You said you were with Susan yesterday afternoon at the time Ms. Dell was murdered.”
Simon stood up, pushing his chair back from the table. The aluminum legs made a terrible screech against the cement floor. “Get them both out of here! You don’t need either of them anymore. It was me. I confess!” He held up his hands and threw his head back. “Just let them leave.”
“Stop it!” Joyce wanted to smack Simon like a misbehaving child. “What are you doing?”
The two detectives had perked up, both sitting forward in their chairs.
Simon looked at Joyce, and in his gaze she saw the ugliness that was their life now, what it had been for the last year when she discovered the truth that night, after the blood and the recriminations and the fumes of whiskey echoing off her husband’s breath.
She took his hand, everyone else in the room dropping away, and said, “Don’t do this.” So soft and gentle, as though she were kissing away his bad dream.
He raised her hand to his mouth, kissed it, and let it go. “Get them out of here,” he said to Bechdel and Kirkpatrick.
The detectives silently communicated with each other, Bechdel lifting her chin eventually in a signal of affirmation. “Would you like a lawyer present?” she asked Simon.
Joyce’s husband shook his head.
Joyce and Susan were escorted from the room by two uniformed officers. She called out, demanding to stay with Simon, but the officers who moved her down the hallway explained she wasn’t the one to make the decision. If Simon didn’t want her there, there was nothing she could do about it.
“But I’m his wife!” she cried out.
“It doesn’t matter,” the officer explained calmly, depositing her and Susan at the plastic chairs in the front lobby and disappearing back into the labyrinth of the station.
Susan wouldn’t meet Joyce’s eyes. “Thank you for your help, but I should probably be going.” She started to button her coat, heading towards the front door. “I’ll have an Uber pick me up and take me back to my car.”
“Wait,” Joyce said. “I’ll come with you.” Her mind moved fast, ideas ticking through the possibilities of what she could make of this situation.
Once they were outside, Joyce asked her question. “How well did you know your brother?”
“I already told you, we were estranged for several years.” Susan crossed her arms over her chest and let out a breath. “It’s been a hell of a long day. I want to go back to my hotel and talk to my family.” She turned away, her cell phone poised in her hand.
“They’ll be back.”
Susan kept walking.
“The police. My husband’s confession won’t stick.”
“Why’s that?” Joyce knew Susan couldn’t help but ask. Curiosity has a way of pushing people towards endpoints they’d otherwise avoid.
“Before I explain, there’s something you need to know about my husband.”
“All right.” Susan put her phone in her pocket.
“He’s been cheating on me for years.”
“That’s not noteworthy. Lots of guys cheat.”
“It wasn’t much of an issue until we both ended up sleeping with the same man.”
“Oh.” Susan’s mouth made a wide circle, her eyebrows raised. “I thought you were…”
“Happy? In a way, I suppose we are. But you see, the reason I know my husband didn’t kill anyone is because he can’t hurt anything that he loves.”
