Dr. Max Hastings
AFTER
“I think we should talk more about that night.”
I don’t have to ask Dr. Jones which of them she is referring to. I know. This is the way she works. Forward and backward, winding this way and that way, any way she can, to try and trip me up. Her, with her patronizing glare and her ever-assessing nature. I understood this. Not so long ago, I lived out my days this way too. Always evaluating, making endless judgment calls.
“The night your wife was murdered. Let’s go back there,” she said, making it personal. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, only to cross them again. “You went home after work?” she asked, chewing at her pencil, like a dog onto a scent, relentless and unmovable. “Briefly.”
“Nina had texted me and asked me to meet her at the Belmond.”
“In other wo
