He shakes his head. “Not necessarily. I believe in the justice system. There’s no such thing as a perfect crime, which means there’s always evidence. They had so much evidence on your ex-husband that if you’d been involved, they would have found evidence of that too. I think the jury got it right in your case.”
My shoulders relax slightly. It’s not the answer I expected. “Thank you.”
He lifts a shoulder. “Of course, that also means that if you or Sam were involved in this one, we’ll find the evidence of that too.”
“You won’t,” I tell him succinctly.
“If you’re so sure about that, why aren’t you willing to answer any of my questions?” He counters.
I have to give him credit for how neatly he’s made his point. I’m sure the tactic probably works on most suspects. Unfortunately for him, I’ve had enough involvement with the criminal justice system to know better.
“Like you, I also believe in the justice system, and under that system, I don’t have to answer your questions.”
“You will when you get a grand jury subpoena.”
“In which case, my lawyer and I will be happy to discuss the matter further.”
“I look forward to it.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you. My lawyer is an asshole.”
He laughs. “Is there any other kind?”
“None that I would be interested in having represent me.”
He gives me a genuine smile, and I find that a part of me likes the man. Despite the fact that he just arrested my partner, I get the sense that Gutierrez is one of the good ones: honest, scrupulous, and a straight shooter. But I also know that the best cops can make you think they’re on your side while setting you up for a knife in the back.
Either Gutierrez is a good guy, or he’s really good at making you think he is. Either way, I don’t plan to let down my guard around him.
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a card, and holds it toward me. “If you change your mind, I’m happy to talk anytime.”
I take the card and slide it into my pocket without looking at it.
“Otherwise, we’ll be in touch about getting official statements from you and your daughter.” With a nod, he turns and returns to the house, huddling with the crime scene techs just inside the door.
Once again I’m struck with a strange sense of déjà vu. I’ve been here before: standing outside my house, surrounded by police officers, red and blue lights blazing. I’m a different person now, and it’s a different house in a different city, but the confusion and uncertainty are the same.
I think about who I was back then—Gina Royal, so naïve and trusting. I thought I was living a good life, and it turned out to be a lie.
A deep sense of foreboding begins to chill my bones. What if this time around is no different? What if the life I’ve scratched, scrabbled, and fought for, that I built out of the wreckage, is no different than before? What if this new life is also a lie?
What if I’m just like the woman I used to be: blind to the truth? It’s already clear that Sam’s been keeping secrets from me. Just like Melvin once did.
What if it’s all about to come crashing down around me, this time leaving me with nothing?
12
GWEN
Once the cops drive off with Sam, I don’t spend any more time at the house. The last thing I want to do is run into Madison. Thankfully, I have a set of spare keys to Sam’s truck in my purse and I’m able to drive myself to the police station. Once I’m there, they don’t show much interest in me. A cop asks me to write down the details of my alibi, which I do. Then, there’s nothing for me to do but wait.
Wait to find out what the fuck is going on. Wait for our lawyer to get Sam released. Wait to hear from Kez that my kids made it to their house safe and sound.
Through it all, I watch my kids’ icons on the location app moving closer and closer to Stillhouse Lake while I chug Styrofoam cupfuls of terrible coffee, trying to stay awake and keep my thoughts sharp. All it does is make me jittery and on edge.
The station was built sometime in the 1980s, and it doesn’t look like much has been done to it since. The floors are laminate with well-worn paths between the front doors and the reception desk. The chairs are molded plastic, arranged against the wall in a repeating pattern of blue, brown, and olive green. Most are empty, and the few that are occupied are filled with people hunched overtheir phones or sitting stiffly with their arms crossed. Except for the one couple arguing under their breaths. None of us makes eye contact.
An old TV hangs in the corner tuned to the local twenty-four-hour cable news station, but it’s muted, the closed captions scrolling lazily across the bottom. It doesn’t take long for the news cycle to repeat, and I find myself staring at an image of my own house. A young reporter stands in front, bathed in the light of the camera. She explains what is known so far, which isn’t much, but she makes sure to hit the most salacious point: a violent murder in the house belonging to the ex-wife of famed serial killer, Melvin Royal.