Page 44 of Such a Good Wife

The hard rap on the door comes, and I don’t move to answer it, so he walks over. The kitchen and living room are one big open-concept space, and I can see him until he gets to the stone archway that separates the front entry from the rest of the house. I stay in the background, but I hear him greet them. I put my coffee down and force myself to take a breath. I can’t literally be trembling if they want to talk to me. I smooth my hair with my hands, and as I start toward the front door, Collin is ushering them into the main room. Collin gives me an uneasy look and I immediately know why.

Joe Brooks is standing in my house. Detective Joe Brooks now. I can’t tell if Collin’s pallor is because of our mutual disdain for Joe or because they want to ask me a few questions.

“Uh...come on in. Have a seat,” I say.

I think about asking Collin to put another pot of coffee on to get him out of the room, but he would see through that. Joe introduces his partner as Al Davis, a tall man about Joe’s age with a military haircut and slender build—a serious, unmoving face, a stark contrast from Joe’s floppy, pop-star haircut and bodybuilder physique. They sit on the sofa, careful to perch on the edge of it and not get comfortable. I sit across from them in a green armchair.

“Sorry to come unannounced like this, Mel,” Joe says. Collin is hovering somewhere behind me. I wish he’d sit down.

“What’s this about?” Collin asks, friendly enough, but I can feel him looking at me. I look back at him and take his hand—I guess an attempt at solidarity, and he sits next to me, on the arm of the chair. Detective Davis starts.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about our investigation into the murder of a local man. Luke Ellison.”

“Sure,” Collin says. “It would be impossible not to.”

“Right,” he says, “but I’m actually asking Mrs. Hale.” All three men look at me and wait for a reply. I’m doing my absolute best to keep my breathing steady and keep my voice at a normal pitch.

“Of course,” I say, quieter than I meant to. I clear my throat. “Yes.”

“Did you know Mr. Ellison?” he asks pointedly. I resist looking over to Collin to gauge his expression.

“Um, I know of him.”

“How well do you know of him?” he asks, and I know that my answer sounded evasive and sketchy. Do I lie outright, or do they already have the cap?

“I don’t know him well, I mean.”

“But you have met him?” Joe asks. I have to admit to having met him. Did the person who sent me that disposable phone tip them off? Did they follow me and take photos, do they have proof?

“Yes, just at the bookstore. Classics. I have a writing group that meets there.”

“You weren’t friends?”

“Friends?” I swallow hard. I feel prickly heat crawling up my back. “No. Why would you think that?”

“Was he a part of this writing group, did you get to know him that way?”

“No, I—He just gave a reading there one night and I met him then. A lot of people did.”

“But you chatted with him, exchanged information.”

“It was a meet and greet. Like I said a lot of people chatted with him. About his book.” I try to keep a look of genuine confusion on my face, but my nervous, fluttery voice betrays me.

“Did you give him your personal info, a business card or anything?”

“Business card? She doesn’t have a business card,” Collin says, exasperated with their questions, certain they are talking to the wrong person. “Why in the world are you asking her about this guy?”

“Records from his computer show that he searched your name. Quite a bit. He seemed to have scoured your social media pages. If you weren’t friends...” the way he says the word implies that he means much more than friends “...then can you think of any other reason the man would be looking you up so excessively?” Joe asks, matter-of-factly.

Collin still isn’t looking at me with mistrust; he keeps his bunched-up expression pointed at the detectives, baffled as to why they would be questioning me of all people.

“He offers private writing courses—lessons. I signed up at his table for more info. We discussed it, briefly.”

“That’s all. You didn’t take the private lessons?” His emphasis on the word private again, is smug and connotative.

“I didn’t end up pursuing the lessons.” I didn’t pull this particular lie out of this air. I’ve been thinking, incessantly, about how I could dismiss any vague connection if someone had seen me with him. He’d mentioned the private lesson idea once. It made sense. It should explain this.

“So, if you didn’t take the lessons, why do you think he would be looking at your photos and searching your name to the extent he did?”

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