Page 70 of Count My Lies

“I came on toher? Caitlin said that? When?” I try not to sound as irritated as I feel. Why had Caitlin been talking to Anne-Marie about us?

“Look, don’t shoot the messenger,” Anne-Marie says, crossing the kitchen and taking another beer out of the fridge. “But don’t worry, I didn’t put much stock in it. All nannies think the dad is interested in them, ever since Ben Affleck ran away with his. It goes with the territory.”

She winks and takes my empty bottle from me, hands me the full, cold one. I take a long drink, then another. The beer’s relaxed me; when I first got here, forty-five minutes ago, right after my fight with Violet, I could have put my fist through a wall. Thank god for Anne-Marie. She was on her porch when I drove by, waved at me to stop. “The kids are upstairs,” she said, motioning to follow her inside,“zonked out in front of the TV.” I can hear it now, volume at full blast.

Now, even over the sound of the TV, the sirens are louder, getting closer. I realize it’s the first time I’ve heard them since we left the city. In New York, they are a constant part of the background noise, an ever-present whine, swelling and fading throughout the day, quieter sometimes than others, but always there. Here, where the only noise is the rushing of the waves, the sound is grating, out of place.

I cock my head toward the street. “Think Caitlin called the cops?” I joke.

Anne-Marie looks at me, amused. She opens her mouth, but doesn’t have a chance to speak, because suddenly, the sirens are right out front. We turn to see two police cars, their lights strobing, parked outside of the house. The doors of each car open, sirens still blaring.

“I’ll go check on the kids,” I say to her. I set my beer on the counter. “Maybe one of them got ahold of a phone?”

But before I can move, there’s pounding on the door. Heavy thudding, a closed fist banging against it. We look at each other, frowning.

Then it bursts open. We both recoil, backing away from the door until we’re pressed up against the living room wall. Three police officers stand in the doorway. Their guns are drawn.

“Jay Lockhart?” one of the officers booms.

Instinctively, I raise my hands above my head. “Yes, that’s me. I—”

“Sir, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Violet Lockhart.” He approaches me with handcuffs, roughly turns me around. I feel metal against my wrists, cold, hard.

Attempted murder? What the fuck?My head is spinning, body unmoving. I stare at him, shell-shocked.

The cop continues, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.”

“There’s been a mistake,” I finally manage, trying to turn to look at him, but I’m jerked back around, my body propelled forward toward the door. “Please!” I’m yelling now, panic rising.

I glance back at Anne-Marie. She’s pale-faced, staring at me with her mouth hanging open, arms clutching at herself.

“It’s a mistake,” I yell again. “Anne-Marie, call a lawyer. You have to help me!” But she doesn’t move, her eyes wide, round and unblinking.

Outside, I’m shoved into the back of a police car, its lights flashing. My head knocks against the side of the car on the way in.

No one speaks to me on the ride to the station. I sit, reeling, a numb, heavy feeling making it hard to breathe, hard to think. Attempted murder? Of Violet? No, there has to be some mistake.

At the station, I’m dumped in a dingy holding cell, drab, gray, humid. There are no windows, no air-conditioning. My shirt sticks to my back, sweaty and grimy. I sit on the hard bench, then stand, then sit again. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t know what the fuck is happening, but I know I shouldn’t be here.

Twice, I get up, yell for water, desperate for someone to talk to me, to look at me, but no one comes. Finally, after what feels like hours, a guard opens the door, calls my name.

He leads me down a cement corridor to an interview room. Like the holding cell, it’s hot and run-down. In the middle, there’s an aluminum table and two chairs, one on each side. The chair is uncomfortable, too small.

The guard leaves, and I’m alone again, but this time, not for long. There’s a loud buzz and the click of the door unlocking.

A man walks in. He’s wearing a pair of slacks, a dress shirt withrolled cuffs, unbuttoned at the collar to reveal a faded white undershirt. He pulls out the chair opposite me, lowers himself into it. He’s a thin, sharp-featured man, forties, early fifties, maybe.

“I’m Detective Edgerton,” he says. He’s brusque, but not rude. “You’re on camera, okay?” He shifts to point to a small video recorder behind him, in the top, right-hand corner of the room. Then he turns back toward me. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

I shake my head. “Nothinghappened! This has to be a misunderstanding!” I’m on the verge of hysteria. “You have the wrong guy! I never hurt Violet. I would never. I—”

“Jay.” He holds up a hand. “Let’s take a step back. When was the last time you spoke to your wife?”

I breathe out shakily. “Earlier this afternoon.”

“And what happened during that conversation?”

“We…” I swallow. I know how this will sound. “We had a fight. She asked me to leave.”

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