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few questions for you, seeing as how you were first on the scene of Mr. Black’s…of his…”
    “Death bed,” I say, helpfully.
    Mr. Snow looks down at his well-polished shoes.
    The detective crosses her arms. I do believe her eyes are drilling into mine in a meaningful way, yet I’m not sure what that meaning is exactly. If Gran were here, I would ask her. But she is not here. She will never be here again.
    “Molly,” Mr. Snow says. “You’re not in trouble in any way. But the detective would like to talk to you as a witness. Perhaps there are details you noticed about the scene or about the day that would be helpful to the investigation.”
    “The investigation,” I say. “Do you presume to know how Mr. Black died?” I ask.
    Detective Stark clears her throat. “I presume nothing at this point.”
    “How very sensible,” I say. “So you don’t think that Mr. Black was murdered?”
    Detective Stark’s eyes open wide. “Well, it’s more likely he died of a heart attack,” she says. “There’s petechial hemorrhaging around his eyes consistent with cardiac arrest.”
    “Petechial hemorrhaging?” Mr. Snow asks.
    “Tiny bruises around the eyes. Happens during a heart attack, but it can also mean…other things. At this point, we don’t know anything for sure. We’ll be doing a thorough investigation to rule out foul play.”
    This puts me in mind of a very funny joke that Gran used to tell: What do you call a poor rendition of Hamlet performed by chickens? Fowl play.
    I smile at the recollection.
    “Molly,” says Mr. Snow. “Do you realize the gravity of this situation?” His eyebrows knit together, and then I realize what I’ve done, how my smile has been misinterpreted.
    “My apologies, sir,” I explain. “I was thinking of a joke.”
    The detective uncrosses her arms and places both hands squarely on her hips. Again, she stares at me in that way of hers. “I’d like to bring you to the station, Molly,” she says. “To take your witness statement.”
    “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” I say. “I haven’t completed my shift and Mr. Snow counts on me to do my fair share as a maid.”
    “Oh, that’s quite all right, Molly,” Mr. Snow says. “This is anexceptional circumstance, and I do insist that you help Detective Stark. We will remunerate you for your full shift, so don’t worry about that.”
    It’s a relief to hear this. Given the current state of my finances, I simply can’t afford to lose wages.
    “That’s very good of you, Mr. Snow,” I say. Then another thought occurs to me. “So I’m not in any trouble, is that correct?”
    “No,” says Mr. Snow. “Isn’t that right, Detective?”
    “No, not at all. We just need to know what you saw today, what you noticed, especially at the scene.”
    “You mean in Mr. Black’s suite?”
    “Yes.”
    “When I found him dead.”
    “Uh, yes.”
    “I see. Where shall I take my soiled teacup, Mr. Snow? I’m happy to return it to the kitchen. ‘Never leave a mess to be discovered by a guest.’ ”
    I’m quoting from Mr. Snow’s most recent professional-development seminar, but alas, he doesn’t acknowledge my witty rejoinder.
    “Don’t worry about the cup. I’ll take care of it,” he says.
    And with that, the detective leads the way, ushering me out of Mr. Snow’s office, through the illustrious front lobby of the Regency Grand Hotel and out the service door.

I am in the police station. It feels odd not to be either at the Regency Grand or at home in Gran’s apartment. I have trouble calling it “my apartment,” but I suppose it’s mine now. Mine and mine alone for as long as I can manage to pay the rent.
    Now here I am in a place I’ve never been before, a place I certainly never expected to be in today—a small, white, cinder-block room with only two chairs, a table, and a camera in the upper-left corner, blinking a red light at me. The fluorescent illumination in here is too sharp and blinding.