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Kelly—journalists, psychiatrists, prison guards, cops. Especially cops. Especially sugar-spooning cops in spatter ties who couldn’t stand anything bitter in their lives, not even coffee.
    â€œThank you,” Kelly said. Was that the right response to say tosomeone being sorry for your loss? Thank you for being sorry? The washing machine thumped. Kelly wanted to throw something at it.
    â€œYou all right?” The detective said it in a probing way, made it sound like a trick question. All those years at Carpentia, Kelly had longed to speak to someone who didn’t talk to her like this, who wasn’t trying to pry something out of her brain with the penetrating gaze, the deliberate gesture, the expertly placed question designed to catch her off guard . . . The detective said, “You look pale. Like you didn’t get a lot of sleep.”
    The washing machine made a socking sound, almost as though something alive were trapped inside, struggling to get out. Kelly’s sneakers. Her bloodstained sneakers. “I slept fine,” she said. “I’m good as can be expected. Under the circumstances.”
    â€œDoing some laundry?”
    She didn’t reply.
    â€œYou don’t mind answering a few questions, Miss Lund?”
    â€œMrs. Marshall.”
    â€œHuh? Sorry, that machine of yours is kind of noisy.”
    â€œMy name. It isn’t Lund. It hasn’t been for the last fifteen years. You can call me Mrs. Marshall.”
    â€œFair enough.” The detective blew on his coffee, took a tentative sip. “So, Mrs. Marshall,” he said, “any reason why you aren’t at your in-laws’ house with your husband?”
    â€œOnly immediate family should be there.”
    â€œAnd you aren’t?”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œYou’ve been married to his son for fifteen years. You’d think at that point, they’d have accepted you as one of their own.” He swallowed more coffee, eyes fixed on her face as the thumping grew more insistent, the whole machine jumping with it, until it suddenly, mercifully eased into a lower cycle. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
    â€œI told you. I’m fine.”
    â€œOkay. When was the last time you spoke to Sterling Marshall?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œYou ever text him? E-mail? Snail mail?”
    â€œNot recently.” In her mind, she saw Sterling Marshall’s name in gold embossed letters on thick, creamy stationery. He’d written her in prison once, only once, a long time ago. She remembered his careful handwriting and what he’d told her in the letter. Another drawer flew open . . .
    â€œDid you speak to Mr. Marshall often? Did your husband?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œCan you give me more of an idea than ‘maybe’?”
    â€œYou would have to ask my husband.”
    In the letter, Sterling Marshall had called John McFadden “a dear friend and one of the great directors of our time.” Kelly remembered that phrase as though she were looking at it for the first time. A dear friend. Her stomach clenched up. He had talked about Kelly, how she hadn’t “ been in control of her senses ” and so he understood. He knew she was sorry. But she wasn’t sorry. She would never be sorry.
    â€œ. . . once a week? Twice a month? Or was it more like a holiday-type thing?”
    The doctor at Carpentia has informed me of your very recent “news.” Another line from that letter, still burned into Kelly’s brain. The quotes around the word news . Want to demean something in one step? Put quotes around it.
    â€œFrom what you knew of your father-in-law, would you say he had any enemies?”
    I trust Shane doesn’t know yet. I trust you’ll do the right thing.
    Kelly heard herself say, “Suicide.”
    The detective jumped a little. “Pardon?”
    â€œThe news reports. They said it was