“Mm. Any history of miscarriage?”
“No.”
“Domestic violence in the home?”
Again, I hesitate, and again, her pen hovers.
I look at the wall behind her as I whisper, “Yes.”
She still shows no sign of recognizing that I’m a human being with thoughts and feelings, not simply fodder for her clipboard form. I don’t know whether to be grateful for that or to weep and fall to pieces.
“Last thing.” She flips the form. “You’re at risk of being placed in general population during your stay here. Do you want me to flag your file for medical—pregnancy precautions, separate housing if available, dietary accommodations?”
I can only nod meekly. “Please.”
She makes one more checkmark, signs the bottom of the form, tears off a copy, and slides it across to me. I can’t pick it up because of the cuffs, so it just sits there.
“You’re done, sweetheart.” She caps her pen. “Officer’ll take you from here.” It’s only as the door is opening behind me that she adds, almost as an afterthought, “Eat the breakfast. I know it looks like shit, but eat it anyway.”
I nod again. I can’t say anything. The lump in my throat has gotten big enough that swallowing is a project.
The officer takes me down another hallway and into another room. I’m given a paper bag with my breakfast in it: an apple, a carton of orange juice with a foil top, and a packaged English muffin with a butter pat that looks vaguely sentient. I eat all of it sitting on a bench, even though the English muffin is quite possibly the worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.
After breakfast, there’s holding, which is a long bench in a big room with a few other women, none of whom bother to look at me. There is a stainless-steel toilet bolted to the floor with nodoor around it, and even though I have to pee, I stay far away from it.
Even though I try to keep them reined in, my thoughts continue to find ways to squirm out of my control. When they do, they beeline to the same topic over and over again.
Matvei.
What the fuck, Mat? Where are you?
I know it’s not right, it can’t be, but my brain keeps conjuring up images of him out there living his best life. Mat in a Bentley. Mat eating a Michelin-star meal. Mat on a private jet with Brittany the Buxom Bridesmaid giggling at his side.
Then it comes up with worst-case scenarios. Mat in the next cell over. Mat dead in a ditch. Even though those make my stomach lurch worse than the English muffin did, at least they’re somewhat satisfactory. They’re an answer, if nothing else, to explain why he isn’t here.
But he’s not dead; I know that. Detective Kramer said bond was wired in without a moment’s hesitation, and that Mat walked out the side door before sunrise. Dead men don’t walk out side doors.
So where is he?
And why has he left me here?
I rub my thumb over the spot where my wedding ring used to be. The skin there is paler than the rest, a little dent worn into the flesh. Mat tossed that stupid jewelry under the settee a week ago and told me the man who put it there didn’t own a single cell of me.
Then he left me to wake up next to that man’s corpse and didn’t come back.
So who’s the real villain?
“Snyder!” a voice calls out. “You’re up. Arraignment.”
I stand up. My legs hold. It’s a small triumph, but at this point, I’ll take anything I can get.
The courtroom is not at all like the ones on TV. It’s smaller and dingier, with a drop ceiling and multiple panels stained brown. The judge sits behind a flimsy-looking desk, and behind him, an American flag and a New York State flag each droop from their respective poles.
I’m led to a wooden lectern in the well of the room. A woman in a wrinkled blazer is already standing at the lectern next to mine, scrolling through a tablet.
The ADA,my brain supplies, in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Raymond.That’s the prosecutor. Pay attention. She controls your life right now.
I am told that a public defender has been assigned to me for this appearance, since I have not yet retained counsel of my own. The defender in question comes jogging up. He is a thin, harried man with a tie that doesn’t match his suit and a thumbprint of cream cheese on his lapel.
