18
The clock on the wall ticked like a build up to something monu-f*****g-mental. With my shoulder blades pressed back hard enough for the seat to dig into them, I tapped my foot against the floor with every second counted off, tapped my fingernail against the underside of the table.
It’d been twenty-three minutes and sixteen seconds since the two detectives had walked out of the interview room. After assuring me I’d done okay, Andrea had left, too—to make some calls, she’d said—but I could hear the quiet murmur of her voice just outside the door, could follow the non-pattern of her clicking heels.
Left to my own devices, my head had tried going wild again. Wild with trying to remember. Trying to figure s**t out.
Wild with accusation of what I couldn’t dispute.
The handle shoved down
