Die for You by Lisa Unger

details to weave a narrative. I immediately assessed the man before me as a textbook overachiever, a person who paid close attention to fine points and appearances. Possibly in paying attention to these things, he occasionally lost sight of the big picture. Something about the straight line of his mouth made me imagine that he was relentless when it came to getting what he wanted, sometimes foolhardy, thoughtless, in his pursuit of it.
    Often—usually—this narrative I create is very close to the truth but sometimes—only sometimes—it replaces the reality of a situation and keeps me from seeing things as they actually are. This is not a good thing.
    Detective Crowe moved into the space without invitation from me and extended his hand. I sat up with difficulty and took it reluctantly. His grip was strong and warm, his nails perfectly manicured. He smelled like coffee. He lifted one of those carefully maintained fingers to his temple, raised his chin toward me.
    “Someone got you pretty good.” I thought I saw a smile play at the corners of his mouth and it infuriated me.
    “Do you find what happened to me funny, Detective?” I asked, trying for a withering tone, but really just sounding sad.
    Any trace of the smile, real or imagined, vanished.
    “Uh, no. Of course not.” His face took on an earnest expression as he removed a neat leather notebook and a stylish Mont Blanc from the lapel of his jacket. “I’m here to talk to you about your husband, Marcus Raine. About what happened at his office this morning.” He flipped open a wallet and I saw his gold shield and identification card.
    In my relief to talk to someone official about what had happened, I unspooled the string of events that had occurred. I noticed that he tried to interrupt me a couple of times by lifting his hand. I ignored him, kept going. I almost couldn’t stop myself. I couldn’t stop until he knew every horrible detail, as though getting it out, getting it on paper, would be the first step toward understanding, solving, fixing everything that had broken since Marcus didn’t come home last night. He dutifully scribbled in his notebook as I ran through everything. I heard his phone vibrating in his pocket a couple of times but, to his credit, he didn’t answer it. Occasionally, there were two of him, the real man and his doppelgänger, the shadowy double my brutalized brain was creating.
    He asked a lot of questions: What led me to believe the people who stormed the office were there in an official capacity initially? The vests with FBI emblazoned in their centers. No, I didn’t ask for identification. Could I describe any of them? Yes, and I did so to the best of my memory. Would I be able to identify any of them from photographs? I think so, yes. Did my husband have enemies? Any illegal dealings that I knew of? Anyone who would want to cause harm to him, me, or the business? No, no, no, no, and no.
    “What do you think she meant by that?” the detective asked finally, when we reached a lull. He’d stopped writing at some point, stood now with his legs spread a bit, his arms crossed in front of him, like a beat cop on a corner.
    “How should I know?” I said, annoyed. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
    “But she knew your husband?”
    I wasn’t sure how to answer; it was a loaded question. “Her statement seemed to imply that, yes,” I said finally.
    The detective appeared to want to pace, kept turning a bit at the shoulder, but there wasn’t much room. He could only walk a step or two in each direction. I could hear his phone buzzing again.
    “How was your marriage in general?” he said gently. “Sorry. I know it’s personal.”
    “I don’t understand.” But I did.
    “Were there problems?”
    I saw a ring on his finger, a thick gold band. “Are there problems in your marriage?” I asked nastily.
    “Yes, there are,” he said, perching on the stool that my sister had been using. “Mainly, I’m the problem.