“Thanks,” I said. It was a relief that she was leaving. A sign that she had gotten what she’d come for. That the story held.

The detective paused at the exit. “I’ve got your initial statement, but it might help if you write down everything you can remember as soon as possible when you’re back at the house, for when the time comes. See if being back home triggers anything else. You’re a witness, and memories have a way of . . . slipping after too much time.” She stared at me before stepping through the gap in the curtains.

Elyse made an overexaggerated grimace when the detective was out of sight. “Yikes,” she said. “She’s very intense. I didn’t expect that when I first saw her.”

“She is investigating a death. That’s probably the required demeanor,” I said.

But Elyse was right. There was something about Detective Rigby that made you focus on the wrong thing. I’d spent the last hours beside her trying to unravel the surface of her and missing what she was actually doing here. I wondered if this was how she worked—letting people underestimate her and seeing what they gave away in the process.

I’d let her into my house, let her look around. Let her sit beside me while the doctor gave an opinion on my injury. It had probably worked out for the best. She’d seen inside both Rick’s home and my own and must’ve realized no crime had taken place inside.

But I’d let her in, not even realizing what she was doing. I’d let her in before I’d had a chance to see it for myself. That could have been a huge mistake. I had to be more careful.

“I’m gonna go check on the paperwork,” Elyse said, squeezing my leg. “Sit tight, okay?”

Separated from me by the curtain, the bustle on the other side fell away—a reality happening somewhere else. A shadow rushing by. A beeping from somewhere down the hall.

A phone started endlessly ringing, and my mind was back in the darkness, struggling for context. I closed my eyes, trying to find it—the memories, before they slipped. Searching, like Detective Rigby had suggested:

Texting Jonah, wineglass in hand. Realizing it was a mistake. Walking to the bedroom . . . Somewhere in the following hour, I’d gotten changed, climbed into bed, placed the phone beside me on the nightstand. But I couldn’t pull those details to the surface. They were mundane, the minutiae of each day, a subconscious routine. I could picture it but couldn’t be sure the memory was from last night specifically, above any other typical night. Instead, I heard the ringing. Felt the impact of the hard earth. Saw the shadow beside it, and the dirt and blood and—

“Liv?” Elyse was standing in the gap of the curtains but now rushed to my side, hand to my wrist. “You’re breathing too fast. Your pulse is racing.”

She looked to the hall like she was going to call for a doctor, but I gripped her hand. “I just want to get out of here. Please. I want to go home.”

Her large brown eyes searched mine, and she nodded. She placed a hand at my elbow as I stood. “Yeah, we’re getting out of here.”

EVEN EXPEDITED, IT WAS nearly an hour after Dr. Britton had finished up by the time I had the discharge papers and the prescription from the pharmacy in hand.

Elyse yawned as we walked across the lot for her car. The sky in the distance was lightening with a purple glow. I eased myself carefully into the passenger seat of her white sedan, and I dropped my purse on the floor behind me. She had a small overnight bag, which could’ve been from changing out of her scrubs after work last night, but also could’ve been because of the evening plans that I’d just interrupted.

“Were you with Trevor?” I asked as she slid into the driver’s seat.

“No, no. I didn’t stay out much longer. The music, blah. And Bennett turned all sulky after talking to his ex. What a trip. No offense, I know he’s your good friend, but he can be kind of a mood killer.” She drummed her hands on the wheel. “Did he call you? Last night, I mean.”

I took out my phone, scrolled through, but there had been nothing other than Jonah’s call. Everyone had gone home to a typical night, it seemed. “Nope.”

“He was not too pleased that you left without saying goodbye. I told him you weren’t feeling well, but . . .” She shrugged. “When he left, I figured he was calling you.” She looked my way, and I shook my head. “I texted him when I found out you were in the hospital,” Elyse continued, “but it didn’t seem to go through. I called and left a message, but it went straight to voicemail. I think his phone was off.” A cut of her eyes in my direction. “Sorry, I didn’t know how else to reach him.”

“No, that’s all right, he’s like that.” The rule follower, silencing his cell for all sleeping hours when he wasn’t on call. Often turned off, for good measure, so people wouldn’t expect a response.

“I’m sorry,” Elyse said, taking a deep breath. “I’m talking too much because I’m nervous. Because I don’t know what to say. Are you okay? You’re obviously not okay. I mean, other than your knee. There was a detective. And a body. I wouldn’t be okay.”

“I’ll be okay,” I said, hoping it was true.

Her grip tightened on the steering wheel. “And he was just . . . there?”

Looking at her, I thought briefly that she might still be drunk. How many hours had it been since she’d left the bar? She’d had at least two drinks before I went home, and she hadn’t seemed in a rush to leave. “Just lying there.”

“And you found him? In the middle of the night?”

The darkness and the ringing and then the shadow—“I heard a phone.” Trying the story on for size. Getting used to the way it felt, until I could see it myself, what had happened during the gap of my memories.

“I heard it was a box cutter,” she said, voice lowered.

The air kicked in through the vents, a sudden icy blast. I cracked my knuckles on the side of my leg. Hadn’t thought much about the logistics of what had caused the blood.

“Sorry, I’m doing it again,” she said. “Talking too much.”

“No, it’s okay.” I cleared my throat. “Where’d you hear that?”

“The nurses. Some of us have a group chat. You know, for . . .

keeping the next shift in the loop on things.”

She had stopped herself before she confessed to violating HIPAA privacy rules, for saying that the nurses might share patient information or stories via texts. A fine line, with or without names. The gray area between legality and morality.

But I knew my name must’ve been mentioned. That someone told her a cop had brought me in to the hospital. I guessed it wasn’t technically confidential, as long as my medical history wasn’t shared.

And now, on another floor, a man had likely been brought to the morgue. Another examination happening elsewhere, trying to unspool the story from a different angle.

I knew Central Valley didn’t get a lot of murders. I’d checked what I was getting into before I moved here. Not as quiet as Widow Hills, but the deaths we documented and tallied were mostly illness, or accidental, or expected. It was worse in the winter, with the icy, winding roads and the mountainous terrain. Even then, there weren’t typically police investigations surrounding them.