“He wasn’t supposed to be there.”

“Wasn’t?” I wonder, leaning back in the metal folding chair.

She hunches forward and places her hands on the metal table between us. I look her up and down. Her once-luscious blond hair – now scraggy and scruffy like a stray dog’s fur – falls behind one of her bony shoulders. Her usually painted, strikingly beautiful face is wrinkled with worry lines. Without its artificial enhancements, her skin’s as dull as old parchment paper.

“Yes.” She rubs her eyelids with her pointer finger and thumb. Her eyes – formerly a gorgeous glacier blue – have faded to pale moons.

“So why was he there?” I ask.

“I don’t know. He just was. ”

Her look reminds me of a chubby pageant mom who’s living vicariously through her primped and shaped-into-perfection toddler. The ones on TV. Yes, that’s it. The moms who possess that brilliantly desperate sadness. And this pageant mom has traded in her jewels for a different kind of silver bracelets.

“… just came home from work,” she finishes.

I pull my consciousness back to the conversation. “You or him?”

“Well, I guess both of us. But I meant me.”

“Why were you home early?”

She focuses on her nails, peeling off a fleck of pink polish.

“You know …” She sighs. “Teddy stopped loving me a long time ago.”

“What relevance does that have to your statement?”

“None.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“He … he just stopped loving me.”

“You can’t stop loving a person like that.”

“Well,” she huffs, combing fingers through her hair. “I guess he never really loved me, then.”

“I’m hearing motive right now.”

“You might want to start building a case for me, not against me. When I go to prison, it’ll look bad on your record too.”

“I was just saying that it sounds like motive.” I gesture to the microphone and recorder on the table. “Why did he marry you at all? You must be pretty angry he never loved you.”

“I wasn’t angry,” she says.

“Oh?”

“I was upset, that’s for sure. I didn’t believe all those late nights at the office. You’ve seen his secretary’s skirt length. No coincidence there.”

“She is very beautiful.”

Her pale moon eyes blaze like suns.

I continue. “What are you suggesting with the secretary?”

“I did share a man with that woman.”

“And?”

“The possibility of her doing it is just as plausible as me doing it.”

“So are you confirming it’s plausible you did it?”

“No. I–” She catches herself, then breathes in. “I’m just saying I’m not the only suspect here.”

“Are you a loose woman?”

“What?” she snaps.

“I’m just wondering if your husband was the only unfaithful spouse here.”

Her mouth drops open.

“Anyone you were keeping on the side? He could’ve gotten jealous you were wearing a ring that belonged to another man.”

“You’re repulsive.”

“I think we’re done here.” I reach across the table, flick off the microphone and recorder.

“What kind of questions were those?” she hisses.

“I can’t show bias toward my sister-in-law,” I reply, clipping my briefcase closed.

Her face softens. “You were mine, once.”

“And you were his.”

“Not anymore. You made sure of that.”