Free You Don't Love This Man by Dan Deweese

her? She’s not the one who robbed me.”
    The detective had maintained a sophisticated though apparently unconscious bit of theatrical business while we talked, putting his cigarette through the standard paces—from fingers to lips and back, propped on the tabletop, and so forth—without ever actually lighting the thing. Now he held it thoughtfully against his temple while fixing me for some seconds with the impassive gaze a headmaster assumes when assessing the prospects of a student.
    â€œIf you want, I can get up, and we can walk outside to where you can smoke,” I said.
    â€œIt’s your comfort that’s important, not mine,” he said. “Memory works best when you’re relaxed. A man sifts things over when he’s in a porch swing, not when he’s on the rack.”
    Skillfully crafted aphorisms have always appealed to me. “What do you want me to sift over?” I said.
    â€œYou’re the victim of a crime, and what we’ve discovered is thatthings go better if we recognize you’re a victim, and let you talk about what’s happened to you—not just the crime, but the effects of the crime. Not just the criminal, as they say, but the personal.”
    â€œI’m just not sure what you mean by the personal.”
    He flipped through some pages in his notebook, and then read aloud in a rapid and strangely toneless voice: “ Jesus she was amazing in bed, I had no idea what that could be like, I was practically a virgin, I’ve never told anyone this, not even her, so please don’t tell her if you talk to her, but Jesus, that kind of stuff— ”
    â€œStop!” I said. “Did I tell you that? Was Sandra here when I said that?”
    â€œThe girl who just left?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGood,” I said. “And I was obviously saying crazy stuff. They’ve got me on drugs here. You shouldn’t have talked to me when I was out of my head like that. And I don’t see what this has to do with the robbery.”
    â€œBut that’s exactly what I’m wondering,” he said. “I don’t know you, and I don’t know this girlfriend of yours whose name has already slipped my mind.” He flipped through the notebook again.
    â€œGina,” I said.
    â€œI’ve written Sandra,” he said.
    â€œYes, Sandra is my girlfriend,” I said with mounting frustration. “But she wasn’t there at all.”
    â€œRight, it was this Gina girl and the other fellow, what’s-his-name.” He flipped more pages. “Here. Grant. The cool customer .”
    â€œThe cool customer? Did I say that? Wait, it doesn’t matter if I said it or not. I was obviously drunk on painkillers.”
    â€œGrant and Gina,” he said. “They’re in the bank, you’re inthe bank, this Mooncalf fellow’s in the bank—that’s a lot of paths crossing.”
    â€œWell, we’re open to the public,” I said. “But only one person robbed the place.”
    â€œCalm down,” he said, raising his hands in a gesture of self-defense that was preposterous, since I remained fully supine on the bed. “I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I know things are probably difficult for you right now, and it can’t be easy having lost your parents at such a young age.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I said.
    â€œYour parents. You said the other day that they’ve passed on.”
    â€œThey haven’t passed on,” I said, exasperated by inaccuracies that, since the detective was relating them, seemed his own.
    â€œYou told me to look at all the cards on the flowers and tell you who was missing,” he said. “You said it was family, because you didn’t have any.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. “We’re just not close. If I told you they passed on, I don’t know why.”
    â€œSo they’re