I stood quickly, chair pushing back, like I could stop this, catch her before she got here. But Detective Rigby was already in my doorway. “Olivia, I’m sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?”

Even though I was standing, I picked up my phone, just to have something to do with my hands. “Did we have a meeting?” I asked. “Did you call back? It’s been hectic here, sorry if I missed a message.”

“No, no,” she said, stepping fully inside my office. She stood, feet apart, eyes skimming the room. “I did get your message, though, and I was in the area—had to talk to some folks downstairs, actually.” She let that comment sit, let it fester, let my mind fill in all the gaps: People working in the morgue? Sydney Britton? Someone else?

We were both standing, my desk between us. “Can I sit?” she asked, gesturing to the couch.

“Yes, of course,” I said, easing back down in my chair behind my desk.

She positioned herself less than a foot away from my purse, so close I could feel my body breaking into a cold sweat. “So, what is it that you wanted to talk to me about? You said you’d found something? The message was pretty vague.”

I closed my eyes, nodded once. Wished I’d been more prepared for this moment, wished we’d done it on my terms. “I checked my mailbox this morning,” I said. “I hadn’t checked it since . . . before. Thursday, maybe? So the mail, it was from Friday, Saturday, Monday . . .”

She raised an eyebrow, urging me forward.

“There was a letter from him. From Sean Coleman.”

And with that, the detective was already on her feet. “You got a letter from Sean Coleman? And you’re just telling me this now?” She braced her hands on the edge of my desk, fingertips white from the pressure.

“I only just found it. On my way to work. I was running late, and I left you a message—”

She cursed to herself, hands now on top of her head. It was the first time I’d seen her with any show of emotion, and her reaction startled me.

Finally, she spun around again. “Is it here?” she asked, gesturing to my purse. Her hand brushing inches from the box cutter.

“No! No, I left it at home. On the entryway table.”

“I thought you said you got the mail on the way to work.”

“Timing-wise. Not literally on my way. I got the mail, brought it inside. Called you. Then left. Why does it matter?” I had officially crossed from omissions to lies, and I was curious, in a detached way, about how fluid that transition had been. Surprised that there had been no big step, no active decision, but a natural slide.

“It matters because it’s a piece of evidence in a murder investigation, and it’s just sitting on your entryway table with the rest of your mail! What, exactly, did you do when you got it?”

I felt my stomach twisting, my fists clenching. “I opened it. I read it. I called you. It said—”

She put her hand out, cutting me off. “No, I want to read it for myself. For the first time. Hear it in his words. Let’s go,” she said, turning for my door.

“I’m at work,” I said, and the purse was beside me, and there was no way I was bringing that box cutter back into my home, back within range of Detective Rigby.

She turned slowly, spoke each word clearly and pointedly. “And I’m a detective on a murder case. I’m sure your employer will understand.”

I realized something then: Yes, she was in charge, and out of her element, and fighting for something herself. All of us were trying to prove ourselves here.

“I have a few things I need to take care of before I can leave. Five minutes,” I said, scrambling. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

She must’ve agreed, because she was already on her phone as she exited my office. I walked her to the elevator, waited until it arrived, watched the doors slide shut with her inside.

The purse was hitched on my shoulder. I had run out of time.

There weren’t any windows into the exam rooms, but we left paperwork in a bin outside each occupied room, beside a whiteboard with the doctor and nurse on-call info. One of the whiteboards looked like it had recently been erased, the blue marker smudge remaining. I ran my hands inside the bin, and it was empty.

I pushed open the door, prepared to say I was looking for someone if I was wrong. But the room was empty and clean. No sign that anyone would be returning quickly.

I went straight for the sink cabinet. Inside was a red container marked Sharps. I quickly opened my purse, hands on the paper towels, unraveling the box cutter directly into the container. I shook the container gently, so it fell near the bottom. All the contents would have to be emptied by the end of the day. I closed the cabinet doors and backed away.

Like that, it was gone.

I took a deep breath, but my hands were shaking as I barreled out of the room into the hallway. The trick to looking like you belonged, I knew, was to act it. That was where I’d gone wrong when Bennett found me in the medicine room.

Head down, phone out, like I was busy. I didn’t see anyone coming when I rounded the corner, walking straight into Bennett. He had his head down as well, nose to a chart in front of him.

His free hand went to my elbow. “Whoa, whoa,” he said. “Hey.” He stepped back, looking me over. “I didn’t know you were back at work yet.”

“I was. But I have to head out now.” I hitched my purse higher, waved my phone at him.

His eyes narrowed down the hall, at door after door of patient rooms. “Were you looking for something?”

“No, I was in the hall and my phone rang, I just ducked inside an empty room for a minute.”

He nodded slowly. “Everything okay? You look . . .” He let the thought trail, let me fill in the blank: panicked, frantic, guilty.

I had wanted to talk to him. But not now. Not standing in this hall, when he had to be wondering what I was doing here, if not looking for him.

I took a deep, steadying breath. “I was looking for you, but . . . I’m meeting the detective now. If anyone asks, I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure, hey, I want to talk, too, but I’m in the middle of . . .” He waved his hand down the hall, and I understood. When we were on, we were on. Everyone here was practiced in compartmentalizing, and Bennett was one of the best.

“It’s fine,” I said, punching in the code to the double doors heading back toward my office.

“I’ll call you when I’m done here,” he said, just as I slipped through the doors.

No one had seen me do it. No one had stopped me. Twenty steps to the door at the other end of the hall. Thirty-two steps down the stairs. When I exited the stairwell, I could see Detective Rigby’s shadow waiting just outside the elevators.

“Sorry,” I called, so she would see me coming. “Ready?”

Three turns down the wide hospital hall to the lobby. The automatic doors slid open, and we were out. The box cutter was as good as gone. And it was all behind me.

I LED THE WAY home in my car as Detective Rigby followed behind. I drove awkwardly, like a kid learning to drive, the way I’d get any time I’d see a cop pull out onto the road, lowering my speed limit, using the turn signals too soon. Checking my rearview mirror continually, like I was waiting for the red and blue lights to turn on.