The police interview was scheduled for a Tuesday.
Patricia had arranged it—voluntary, her terms, her presence. Not the DA's office. A conference room at Patricia's firm on West Sixth, beige carpet and a long table and windows that looked out over the parking garage. The detective's name was Okafor. He was maybe forty, unhurried, with a legal pad and the deliberate blankness of someone who had learned to show as little as possible.
Patricia sat to Mia's left. Mia had been told: answer only what is asked. Stop completely if I touch your arm. Do not explain unless I nod.
She had rehearsed it three times the night before, sitting on Sarah's couch at midnight. She had been a teacher for four years. She knew how to answer hard questions without flinching.
"Ms. Thompson." Okafor opened his pa
