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You have her doctor’s statement. You are aware of the nature of this disease.
    The first man started in again. What was the state of your relationship with Amanda O’Toole in February?
    I imagine it was what it always was, I said. Close, but combative. Amanda was in many ways a difficult woman.
    The woman spoke for the first time. So we’ve heard, she said. She allowed herself a small smile. She nodded to the first man to continue.
    You had a fight with her in her house seven days before the body was discovered. About the time of the murder.
    What murder?
    Just answer the question. Why did you go to Amanda O’Toole’s house on February fifteen?
    We were in and out of each other’s houses all the time. We had keys.
    But that particular day? What were you doing? According to our witness, you didn’t knock but let yourself in the front door. This was at approximately one thirty PM . At two PM this neighbor heard loud voices. An argument.
    I shook my head.
    Look, clearly she doesn’t know, Magdalena said. She won’t even remember you were here ten minutes after you’re gone. Can’t you leave her alone? How many times are you going to ask these questions?
    The first man started to talk, but the woman silenced him. That evening was the last time anyone saw Amanda O’Toole, she said . She visited the drugstore, bought some toothpaste, and picked up some food items from Dominick’s around six thirty PM . But she didn’t take in her paper after that day. The timeline fits. If nothing else, Dr. White was one of the last persons to see Mrs. O’Toole before she was killed.
    The world shifted sideways. Darkness descended. My body turned to stone.
    Killed? Amanda? I asked. But it was true. Somehow I knew that. This was not shock. This was not surprise. This was grief, continued.
    After a short silence, the woman spoke. Her voice was gentler. That must be difficult. Reliving that moment over and over again.
    I willed myself to breathe, to unclench my hands, to swallow. Magdalena put a hand on my shoulder.
    And why are you here today? asked Magdalena. We’ve gone over this several times. Why again. Why now? You have no evidence.
    There was only silence to that.
    So why are you here? Magdalena asked again. No one was looking at me.
    Just routine. Trying to find out if Dr. White can help us in any way.
    How could she help you?
    Perhaps she saw something. Heard something. Knew something about what was going on in Amanda’s life that no one else knew about. The woman turned to me suddenly.
    So, was there? she asked. Anything out of the ordinary in Amanda’s life? Anyone who had a grudge? Had reason to be . . . disgruntled?
    Everyone looked at me. But I was not there. I was in Amanda’s house, at her kitchen table, we were laughing wickedly over her imitation of the head of our block’s Neighborhood Watch program, her rendition of the 911 tape in which the woman reported a dangerous intruder trying to break into the church, which turned out to be a stray Labrador urinating under a bush.
    It was a humble kitchen, never renovated to the standards of the neighborhood. Peter and Amanda, schoolteacher and PhD student in religious studies, bought the house prior to the area’s gentrification.
    Plain pine cupboards painted a flat white. Checkered linoleum tiled floors. A twenty-year old avocado green Frigidaire. Amanda brought out a stale Bundt cake, a leftover from a PTA function, and cut us each a dry slice. I took a bite and spitted it out at the exact moment she did the same. We started laughing again. And suddenly I ached with loss.
    The female detective had been watching me intently. Enough, she said. That’s all for today.
    Thank you, I said, and our eyes met for a second. Then the three of them took their leave.

    March 1, according to the calendar. Our anniversary. James’s and mine. I usually forget, but James, never. He doesn’t buy me extravagant