Page 76 of Mad Mabel

I shift in my chair. “Yes. I told the officers who stopped by that he scratched my arm the day before. He went for his dog—I was holding it—and caught me in the scuffle.”

Wills nods. “You did say that.”

The pause stretches like gum.

“Here’s the thing, Ms. Fitzpatrick,” Wills says. “You had acontentious relationship with Mr. Patel. There are witnesses who say you threatened him. At the time of his death, he had your DNA under his fingernails, and your shoe had his DNA on it. And you—conveniently—were the one who found the body.”

“Yes,” I agree.

“Well. From our perspective, it looks suspicious.”

Of course it bloody does. I realize now that brutal honesty in my first police chat might not have been my wisest move. But hindsight, as they say, is a smart-arse.

“I don’t have to admit anything,” I say crisply. “May I ask what the autopsy showed? Officially.”

Their faces shift. I can see Wills fighting the urge to snap, “We’re the ones asking the questions,” but she refrains.

“Inconclusive thus far,” she says. “We’re waiting on toxicology, but that’ll take weeks. In the meantime, we’re exploring all angles.”

“And by all angles,” I say, “you mean this one angle—because you found out I’m Mad Mabel, the alleged killer of yesteryear.”

Wills doesn’t answer right away. Her vein pulses like she’s moments away from a medical emergency.

“As we said,” she eventually manages, “with the DNA involved, there was reason enough for a follow-up. There’s a lot to cover.”

“Fine,” I say, sinking back in the chair. “I’ll have that tea now. Strong. Milk. Two sugars. And if you’ve got a biscuit, bring it. This might take a while.”

I answer the detectives’ questions. Their tedious, never-ending questions. They follow a circular rhythm: When did Ishaan and I start feuding, what was the nature of it, how bad did it get, what did I consider doing to bring it to an end? And around it goes.

I repeat my answers until I want to smash my head against the table.

When there is a knock at the door, I am delighted, if only for something to break up the monotony.

“Ms. Fitzpatrick’s lawyer has arrived,” the young woman at the door says.

Wills and Carlaw look at me. “Did you call your lawyer?”

I can only imagine my facial expression.

“I would have,” I say, my voice all posh-like. “But I used my one phone call to ring Beyoncé instead.”

Carlaw, naturally, doesn’t so much as crack a smile.

“She didn’t call a lawyer,” Carlaw says, and starts to close the door.

I needn’t have worried about the story being too boring for Daphne, because what happens next feels like something out of a fever dream. A young man in an expensive-looking suit blocks the door with his foot, moments before it closes, and peers into the room.

“Actually, it wasn’t Ms. Fitzpatrick who called me,” he says, “it was my aunt.”

“Youraunt?” I ask, confused but enjoying the drama.

And then she pops her head around the door. “This is my nephew, Elsie,” Joan explains, beaming from ear to ear. “I’m not sure if I mentioned it, but he is a partner in a law firm.”

47

THEN

Aweek after my father found Daphne and me in his bedroom, I came downstairs to find him sitting at the breakfast table, peering down at a folded newspaper that sat beside his plate of scrambled eggs.