Free Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie by Merry Jones

left, I told myself that Stiles didn’t really think I’d killed Charlie. He couldn’t. The police were just being thorough. I rinsed out the cups, went upstairs, showered. Stood under the stream of hot water, replaying the visit, over and over again. No matter how I tried to deny it, though, it was clear. The police suspected me. Otherwise, why the multiple questionings? Why the intense stares? Why all the questions about my hand, my activities on Thursday?
    Oh God. I closed my eyes. Why had answering those questions been so hard? I’d given my best guesses, made assumptions about what I must have done. Didn’t have complete concrete certainty. My memory was misty. And it had gaps; the chain of events lacked links.
    Obviously, that was to be expected. I’d been in shock onThursday. Suffered a trauma. Memories of minor tasks I’d performed earlier had been blown away by the murder. It was understandable that I couldn’t recall details. Wasn’t it?
    Hot water pounded my face, my hair. And thoughts pounded my head. Someone had killed Charlie. In my house. The police had narrowed the window of time of the murder. I’d been home at least for part of it. Even had that damned knife wound on my hand. Obviously, they thought I was guilty, were gathering evidence against me. Probably weren’t even looking at anyone else. I was the spouse, and it was almost always the spouse. Especially the estranged spouse. As soon as they could build even a circumstantial case, they would arrest me.
    Oh God. Really? They’d arrest me?
    I saw Officer Moran’s handcuffs closing around my wrists. Felt the cold metal, heard the locks clink. Would they come for me here at home? Before work? Surely, they wouldn’t take me out of school, not in front of twenty-four second graders. But maybe in the parking lot—
    Stop it, I said out loud. Startling myself. Realizing that I was no longer standing, but curled under the streaming water against the shower wall, on the floor. Hiding.
    No. Shaken, I climbed back to my feet, turned off the water. Smoothed my hair. No one was going to arrest me. They didn’t have evidence, not a scintilla. They couldn’t, since I didn’t do it. It was that simple.
    Good. So why didn’t knowing that make me feel safe?
    Maybe because innocent people had gone to jail before. For years. For decades. For life. Lord. Innocent people had even been executed.
    No way was I going to sit passively and watch the cops weave a web around me, trapping me in a net of suspicion. Stepping out of the shower, I wrapped myself in a towel, faced myself in the mirror, met my own wary eyes. And understood. There was only one sure way to get the police to back off andaccept the fact that I hadn’t killed Charlie. And that was to find the guy who had.
    But first, I had to plan a funeral.

    “Shit, Elle. I cannot believe you didn’t call me. You just let them in?” Susan was exasperated. She’d called as I was about to leave for the funeral parlor, and I’d told her about the visit by Detective Stiles. She scolded me, furious. “And you served them coffee and chatted like you were best friends. And told them everything they wanted to know. Please, Elle. Do not tell me that.”
    Why? Had talking to them been so wrong? “But I thought Detective Stiles was your friend.”
    An audible sigh. “Yes, Elle. Nick Stiles is my friend. Mine. Not yours. To you, the man is a homicide detective.” She spoke slowly, as if to a moron. “Elle, listen to me. Detective Stiles did not come to your house to socialize. He came to interrogate you. Swear to me you will not let the police in again without a warrant.”
    She stopped, waited for a reply.
    “Okay.”
    Not good enough. “No. Not just ‘okay.’ Swear.”
    “Okay. I swear.”
    “And do not answer any more of their questions, not a single one. If they have questions, tell them to contact me. Get it?”
    I got it. “So I guess you think I’m a suspect?”
    A pause. A tsk. I pictured an