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responsible for it being where it is.
    “Did anyone make any threats against Mr. McDaniel, even in passing or jokingly?” the detective asks.
    “There was the usual office stuff, I guess,” I say, wiping my nose with my sleeve. “I don’t think anyone said anything about actually stabbing him, though.”
    “Who said anything about stabbing?” the detective says, his ears perking up.
    “Oh my god,” I breathe, “I forgot about Melissa.” I go to stand up, but the detective holds up his hand.
    “Who’s Melissa?”
    “She called me,” I say. “Right before the police came. I never hung up. She might still be on the phone.”
    “It’s true,” James says, trying to offer something to help me out of this. Even though I doubt this is going to be the thing that removes all suspicion, it’s just good to know that he still loves me enough to try. “She got a phone call less than a minute before I heard the cars pulling up.”
    “Where is the phone?” the detective asks.
    I point toward the bookcase, now a broken shell of the masterpiece it had been only a short time ago. The detective walks in the direction that I’m indicating and finds the phone on the ground.
    He puts the phone to his ear and says, “Hello?”
    Apparently the line is still open because he has a quiet, brief conversation. A minute passes, then two. Three minutes, and I’m starting to wonder what they could possibly be talking about when the detective looks at me, his eyes inscrutable, but focused.
    “Thank you,” he says finally and sets the phone on the now ruined bookcase. I can hear the other officers somewhere in the house, tossing the place as the detective walks straight to me and tells me to stand up and turn around.
    “What are you doing?” James asks.
    “Rose Pearson, you are under arrest for the murder of Rory McDaniel. You have the right to remain silent...” the rest is a blur of confusion and disbelief, and I can only assume that he finished the Miranda when he asks if I understand my rights.
    Right now, I don’t understand anything.

Chapter Four
    Handcuffs
    ––––––––
    I ’m taken away from James and stuffed into the back of a cop car. I don’t know why this is happening, but it’s a mistake. I know that I had nothing to do with Mr. McDaniel’s death. He may not have been in the top twenty of my “favorite people” list, but it would never even occur to me to kill him. I don’t want to kill anyone and I never have.
    The detective is trying to hide his pride in having “apprehended his suspect” so quickly, and with so much ease, but it’s not working. He informed me of my rights, and I said that I understood them, but right now I’m too afraid to say anything else. I don’t know why this is happening, and I don’t know what’s going to make things worse.
    “So,” the detective says, still trying to hide his smile. “You seem like a nice person. I can’t help but wonder what would cause someone like you to just snap and kill her boss.”
    He’s baiting me. After I was read my rights, and I acknowledged my understanding of them, he asked if I wanted to make any statements. I said, “No.” What he’s doing now is a bit of a gray area: he’s trying to get me to respond to him, but he’s not actually questioning me. What he’s doing is trying to get me to waive my Miranda rights and talk to him.
    I have nothing to hide, but that didn’t stop him from arresting me. It didn’t stop those officers from breaking into our house without identifying themselves and it sure as hell didn’t stop that jerk Robertson from assaulting James, so I’m not about to say anything to this snake.
    “I wonder,” he says to himself. “Could it have been that you were just frustrated from years of abuse? Maybe you found out that he was going to fire you. Or maybe,” he looks in the mirror, still technically talking to himself, “it was a jealous rage. From what I understand, your boss had called some