Free The Last Dead Girl by Harry Dolan

kitchen and gestured toward the sink. I thought he might need it.
    He didn’t, in the end. He bent over it with his mouth open and gulped air, but that was all. When he straightened up, he wiped his sleeve across his mouth, though it looked dry enough to me.
    â€œYou’re all right,” I told him.
    The wrong thing to say, because it reminded him that I’d been there all along. He’d been careless. Who knows what I could’ve done while he had his back to me? I could’ve clocked him over the head and swiped his gun and gone for a joyride in his car. He decided to get tough retroactively.
    â€œPut your hands on your head.”
    â€œOh, come on.”
    â€œDo it.”
    He unsnapped his holster and touched the grip of his gun, and I put my hands on my head. When he told me to turn around, I did that too. I was facing the wall beside the archway. I could hear cars pulling into the drive, more cops coming. I felt his hand on the back of my collar, heard him say I had the right to remain silent. He shoved me forward roughly and if I hadn’t turned my head I think he would have broken my nose. As it was, the side of my face hit the wall and the impact opened up the cut on my temple.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    I n the room with the white-tile walls, my fingers kept returning to the cut. It had its own topography: a long, thin ridge. Moretti had given me a Band-Aid to cover it, but it wasn’t big enough. I could feel the ends of the cut on either side.
    Moretti saw me fussing at it. He closed his notebook and said, “All right. We’ll take a break. Ten minutes. Then we’ll start again at the beginning.”
    â€œNo,” I said.
    â€œNo?”
    â€œI’m leaving.”
    The idea amused him. “You’re not leaving.”
    â€œI’ve told you everything I know.”
    â€œI still have questions.”
    It was almost three in the morning and I had questions too. Not the kind that could be answered in that room. I was tired and I needed to know where I stood. The only way to find out was to press the issue.
    â€œThis has gone on long enough,” I said. “You can let me go or you can charge me with something. And I don’t think you’re going to charge me.”
    â€œWhy not?” said Moretti.
    â€œBecause by now you’ve had a chance to figure out what time Jana died.” I was guessing, but it seemed likely. It was probably the subject of one of his conversations in the hallway. “And if it happened while I was sitting in The Falcon waiting for her, that’s something you can verify. You might have done it already.”
    I was hoping that might be true, but Moretti’s reaction—the terse shake of his head—made it clear I wasn’t going to be so lucky.
    â€œThe medical examiner’s best guess is that Jana Fletcher died sometime between six and seven,” he said, “which means it happened while you were out driving and thinking. According to your story.”
    â€œIt’s not a story.”
    â€œIt is until I confirm it.”
    I shrugged. “You’re still not going to charge me. It’s too soon. You want to be sure. You don’t want to be proven wrong later—when you find out it was someone else. That would be embarrassing—”
    â€œI can live with the embarrassment.”
    â€œIt would be bad for you, and for the entire police department. You’re forgetting who I am. My family’s name is on buildings in this city. If you get this wrong, I can make trouble for you.”
    Moretti frowned. “Are you threatening me?”
    â€œNo. I’m done talking to you. If you plan to keep me here, I’ll need to call a lawyer.”
    I sat back and crossed my arms, and he glared at me from under his heavy brow. Up above us, the fluorescent lights hissed—a fitting sound track for our contest of wills. We might have gone on like that for a