Free Pictures of You by Caroline Leavitt

on them. Her disappointment made the cupboards sag. The neighbors had changed so many times she no longer knew some of them, and no one would consider them a young couple anymore, nice or otherwise. Luke was just a guy who had worked his way up in a local pub until he owned it. He spiffed it up and got a decent menu of food, a chef who could whip up four different kinds of pastas, some soups and sandwiches, but no matter how fancy the tablecloths, how pretty the menu, everyone in the area knew it was still really a bar, a place with dark lighting where you could sitfor hours and not get kicked out, or kiss a complete stranger, and that’s what they came for.
    Well, she should have known better. She should have seen what was coming. Isabelle got herself a bottled water from the refrigerator and sat in the kitchen, sipping, trying to think what to do next, when the doorbell rang.
    A MAN IN A DARK SUIT was at the door, and for a moment, Isabelle thought he had the wrong address, until he flashed a badge, a glint of silver in the chilly air. Her mouth went dry and she couldn’t speak. She had felt better since she was home, but now her leg began to throb. “Detective Harry Burns. I’d like to talk to you about the accident, if I may,” he said. He glanced at her. “Is this a good time, ma’am? You feel up to it? I tried to talk with you in the hospital but the nurses were pretty persuasive that I wait.”
    Isabelle eagerly led him into the living room, nearly toppling, and he quickly offered a hand to steady her, holding her tightly. He helped her to sit and then pulled up the black leather chair of Luke’s for himself. “What happened to the other people?” Isabelle blurted. “Please, you have to tell me.”
    He looked at her mildly. “Let me get some information down, first,” he said. Her stomach twisted. He pulled out a dime-store notebook and a black pen that had chew marks on the tip, and Isabelle was suddenly conscious of her matted hair, and she wrapped it into a clumsy knot. “Your husband gave us your insurance information,” he said. “So we don’t need to go there.” He nodded at her, expectant. “Why don’t you tell me what happened.”
    She looked at her hands, which were still jeweled with bruises. There was a thin white band of flesh where her wedding ring had been. She wanted to get it over with, so she started to talk. Every once in a while he asked her a question, but she kept noticing how bored he looked, and more than a few times he glanced at his watch. “What was your speed?” he asked. “What was the visibility?”
    “There was so much fog,” she said. She swallowed. “I was only going about thirty.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “What happened to the woman and the boy?” Isabelle said.
    He looked up at her and for the first time she noticed that his eyes were a soft, mild blue, like cat’s eyes. “I thought you would know. The woman died instantly,” he said.
    The air around Isabelle turned to ice. Her skin prickled. The detective was still talking, his words swimming toward her. “The boy’s okay,” he said. “Scratched up, but he’ll live.” He tapped his pen against the pad. “From all we could gather so far, looks like you’re in the clear. Appears that you did nothing wrong and the other woman was negligent.” He told her they checked the skid marks and saw that Isabelle wasn’t speeding. They’d seen how heavy and dense the fog was firsthand, and it was clear that no driver could see through the soup of it. “You did everything right, to my mind. You weren’t talking on your cell phone, being distracted?”
    “There was a hornet in the car,” Isabelle whispered.
    “A hornet?” He looked at her, but he didn’t write anything down.
    “It wouldn’t leave.”
    He glanced down at his notes. “The coroner’s report isn’t in yet,” he said. “If she was dead already before the accident, or on drugs, that would rule out homicide charges.”
    “Homicide!”