“Tell me about it,” I say, hoping she’ll share.
“About the precinct?” She sinks into the sofa and pulls a knee up to her chest, looping her arms around it.
“What’d they want?”
Hudson and I exchanged messages earlier this evening. He’s working on his end for information, but the investigative team is being tightlipped.
“The detective may have uncovered something from my past—” She stops and shakes her head, then palms her forehead. “No, he didn’t. It’s…”
“What might he have uncovered?” I ask, genuinely intrigued. It’s hard to imagine this woman having anything shady in her past.
“No,” she shakes her head again, chewing on her lip. “It’s nothing.”
“Tell me,” I prod. “I’ll tell you if it’s nothing.”
“No.” Her lips turn up slightly on the ends, almost wistful. “I’ve cultivated the ability to keep secrets and I’m not going to let a desperate detective with no leads dig up something long buried.”
“That’s…intriguing.”
She blinks like she’s snapping out of a fog.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Two glasses of wine and I’m…” she lets the words trail.
“You know, I’m not a lawyer, but it’s my understanding that in a criminal investigation it’s best to be upfront about everything.”
She cocks her head, studying me. “Maybe one day I’ll tell you everything, but for today, all you need to know is that I didn’t have anything to do with Matthew Delacroix’s death.”
“I know that.”
Her eyes snap to mine—searching, almost desperate. “Do you?”
“Yeah.” I hold her gaze. “I do.”
Something in her shoulders gives. Not much. Just enough.
“The detective…” She stops, starts again. “He implied he knew things. Personal things. But he was fishing. He had to be.”
“What kind of things?”
She shakes her head, jaw tight. “Things I’ve worked very hard to keep buried. Things that have nothing to do with murder but everything to do with…” Her voice cracks. Just barely. “Everything to do with who I was a long time ago.”
That’s a significant statement.
“You don’t owe me your past,” I say quietly. “But for what it’s worth? I’ve seen who you are now. That’s what matters.”
Her exhale shakes. “I keep telling myself that.”
“Then maybe start believing it.”
She stares at the silent TV, where a car commercial plays in muted colors.
“When my parents died, when I was fifteen,” she says, voice hollow. “I didn’t get to say goodbye. The car accident—so unexpected. And today, after sitting in that interrogation room, all I’ve been able to think is—if they charge me, if I lose Stella, if everything I’ve earned disappears—” Her breath hitches. “I’d be that girl again. Alone. Shattered.”
I shift closer. Close enough that our shoulders touch.
“You’re not alone,” I tell her.
She turns then, and her eyes are wet. The armor’s gone.