Page 9 of Summer Shivers
“My sleeping pills.” I decide to lead with the truth. “I take them, usually with wine, it’s the only way I sleep,” I begin. “After I took one last night, I went to sleep. Everything else is blank.” I shake my head. “I wish I could help more.”
“Maybe more will come to you if we get you away from here.” The female officer gestures to where Harrison’s body remains, now covered by a sheet. “We can help you get it all sorted out while our colleagues handle this here. A change of scenery would probably do you good.”
I nod and let the office guide me out of the pool area, back through the gardens, to the front of the house, and into the back of the police car.
I watch the familiar scenery pass me by. Our driveway. The street we live on. The small-town center just beyond our neighborhood. The edge of town. Somewhere along the way, I realize what is happening.
“Wait, this is a mistake,” I start, knocking on the cage separating me from the officers in the front seat. “I shouldn’t be here. I didn’t do anything. Am I under arrest?”
“You are not under arrest, Mrs. Daniels. We just thought you might benefit from talking to us on neutral ground, somewhere quiet.”
“But we’re at the police station.” I point out, unnecessarily as we pull into the parking lot. “That’s not neutral. Do I need to call my lawyer?”
“Do you think you need to call your lawyer?” the female officer asks as she assists me in exiting the back of the car.
“If you think I killed my husband, I do.”
“No one is saying that,” the other officer replies.
“Then it shouldn’t matter if I call him,” I say. “Wait, I don’t have my phone with me, can you take me back so I can get it?”
“We have one you can use,” the other officer says.
They usher me into a small room with a table, four chairs, and a phone. “Dial ‘9’ to get an outside line,” the officer says before shutting the door.
I dial the number I know by heart, thanks to being Harrison’s assistant for so long. He often has dealings with his attorney. And his attorney is the only attorney I know.
“Grant Show,” he answers.
“Grant, hi, it’s Genevieve—”
“Where the hell is he? I’ve been waiting for almost an hour. He’s not answering his phone, you’re not answering your phone. Where are you calling from?”
“The police station,” I whisper even though no one is in the room with me.
“What did he do?” Grant asks.
“Nothing. He’s dead. And I think they think I did it. Can you come?”
“Fuck. I’m not a criminal defense attorney, Genevieve. I can’t help you.”
“The officer said I’m not under arrest. I just need a friendly face with me right now. Please?”
He sighs heavily. “Say nothing, I’ll be right there.”
I feel completely alone sitting here, even knowing all the while I’m being watched. I know enough to know I’m in a bit trouble. My husband is dead. The police are looking at me as the prime suspect. And I admit, if I didn’t know me, I’d suspect me, too.
If I didn’t do it, and I must believe I didn’t—despite the blank in my memory—I need to figure out who would want Harrison dead.
My chest tightens uncomfortably. I don’t even have anyone I can call. Anyone who might talk to me I know through Harrison. I lost touch with all my Seaside friends after moving to Lake Oswego. And our lives in Lake Oswego revolve primarily around Harrison, socially and otherwise.
Regardless, I go through the short list in my head of people I can reach out to. Half I already know won’t even pick up, having been Harrison’s friends more than mine. I need an ally. Someone outside of his sphere.
My head throbs and stomach churns. I need a shower to clear my mind. And get rid of this chlorine smell. Why is it so strong?
And something, anything, to make this bad taste leave my mouth. Though I fear that may never happen now.
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