The Crime Writer

As I stepped onto the porch, the door jerked against the security chain. She laughed self-consciously, freed the chain, and beckoned for me to enter. We sat on opposing plush white couches straight out of a tampon commercial.

She appraised the scar on my head. "Any rashes from the Dilantin?"

"Meds have been fine." I shifted on the cushions, unable to get comfortable. "I wanted to thank you for coming to court for me. I think it made a difference, and even if it didn't, thank you."

"You're welcome. I'm glad you got acquitted, and I'm sorry you went through what you went through."

Despite her impassive expression, she sat rigidly. She was wearing a linen skirt wrinkled at midthigh and a halter with straps that tied at her nape, accenting her throat, splotched red from a nervous blush that refused to fade. She stayed awkwardly on the edge of the cushion as if ready to flee, her eyes darting, uncomfortable. And why not? What was she supposed to say?

"I miss you," I said.

Her gaze dropped to her lap, and I felt suddenly cold, exposed, aware of the notch in my hair. Was she afraid of being alone with me? Or was I projecting?

It had been hard on her. Press camped on her lawn, helicopters at night. The cops had tossed her house, emptied trash cans on the floor, even come by her office with a warrant. She'd waited five days to visit me in jail, which pretty much told me where things were headed. She'd been concerned for me, apologetic, but that had only made her leaving worse. She'd reminded me that we were just starting out, not even engaged yet. It was a lot to overcome three months into a romance.

I thought about those bluish gray morning hours when I'd stir and she'd be there beside me, how I'd curl around her form and drift back to sleep. When the road is smooth, how easily we forget that we need people. That we actually require them. I hadn't touched April since before the murder. I'd viewed her through ballistic glass under the watchful gaze of an armed correctional officer and, now, across a stretch of dated white carpet. All I could think about was the warmth of her body while she slept and how I could no longer take for granted that I'd feel it again. Of course, I couldn't take it for granted then either. I just did.

Her stress was palpable, and it struck me hard that I'd brought this to her life.

"I'm sorry how this has affected you," I said.

She wound the hem of her shirt around her finger, then unwound it. "Listen, Drew, I'm " Her voice wavered, and she stopped.

"Don't worry. I understand that you don't need to have anything more to do with this."

She glanced at her watch. "Then you just came by to thank me?"

"Yes, and…" I realized I was fussing with my hands and set them in my lap. "Can I ask something of you? One thing?"

She couldn't hide a touch of wariness.

"Take me through that night again?"

"What… why?"

"Because you're the only one who can. Coming home, I'm trying to piece together those missing hours, but all I've got is this breakfast bowl and a cracked saucer "

"Drew, what are you talking about? The trial is over. You're free. You should see someone, start putting this behind you. At least get some sleep. If you don't mind me saying so, you looked better in jail."

"I'm hoping a few answers will help me sleep."

"Or they'll lead to more questions."

"Right," I said. "But at least this time they'll be the right questions." I waited as she studied the wall over my head. "Please, April. I won't bother you again."

She drew a sharp breath. I waited for the sigh, but it didn't come. Instead she said, "It's like I told you in jail. You worked that day. I came over around six. We went to dinner. Fabrocini's."

"Did we run into anyone we knew?"

"No. Then we came home. We made love."

"Where?"

"On the couch. With the view."

"Did anyone call?"

She shook her head. "And then you had another migraine come on. Bad one. Laid down, lights out, the whole thing. I read with a booklight so I could stay beside you. But there was nothing different from any other time it's gone like that. You went to bed normal…"

The unspoken part of the sentence dangled. And woke up a killer.

She uncrossed her legs, crossed them again, tugged at her knee with her laced hands. "I woke up alone in your bed at four A.M. when the cops showed up."

She was a deep sleeper, slow to wake. I imagined her confusion at the empty space beside her in the sheets. Maybe she'd called for me in the bathroom. The insistent second chime of the doorbell. Disorientation giving way to concern, concern to fear. Bare feet on the carpet as she felt her way through the darkness into the hall. The police lights shining through the frosted insets of my front door and rising through the open foyer, setting the second-story ceiling awash in blue and red. What a long walk that must have been down the curving stairs.

"You don't remember a phone ringing late at night? And I didn't talk to you after I supposedly listened to Genevieve's message?"

"I don't remember anything."