Now

I wake to furious knocking at my front door and sit straight up. Eight in the morning. Captain shoots off the bed and thunders downstairs.

I groan as I swing my legs over the side of the bed, then I stumble after my dog, still in my rumpled clothes from last night. I don't know if it was overexhaustion or some newbie reaction to weed, but I did not sleep well.

I look through the peephole. Fuck. Sheriff Mitchell and Deputy Adams. And behind them, more reporters than I can count on both freaking hands. In fact, the whole road is a mess of news vans and cars. Giving my hair a quick swipe back, I crack the door.

"Yes?"

"Miz Walden." The sheriff's look is appraising. "I didn't think you were coming back."

I lay a hand on Captain's head. He's tense at my side, alert, and I wish I could order him to rip into the sheriff. Instead, I open the door a little wider and jerk my head for them to come in. Which is more of a welcome than these two deserve.

The sheriff removes his hat as he crosses my threshold, as does Adams. I lock the door behind us.

"Kitchen," I say in my raspy morning voice, leading the way to the back of the house.

I have a moment of déjà vu as they sit at my table.

The sheriff sniffs. "Is that the smell of marijuana, Miz Walden?"

Shit.

I sniff, too, feigning surprise, plucking at my clothes. "Maybe?"

"You do realize that is an illegal drug in the State of Indiana."

"Go tell the people who've been camped in my yard all night," I snap. "And you know what else? They're trespassing. Isn't it your responsibility to remove them?"

Silence greets me.

"I need coffee," I say, half to them, half to myself. They're silent as I set the coffee maker. Next, I feed Captain, dumping more of Bob's homemade concoction into his bowl. It's getting pretty pungent, but Captain wolfs it right down. I put the container in the sink to remind myself to put the rest down the garbage disposal.

"Where were you yesterday, Julia?" says the sheriff when I finally lean against the counter and face the men, my back to the gurgling coffee maker.

"Like I said, lunch with a friend. You told me there was a new development. What is it?"

"First, I'd like you to walk me through Saturday night. In detail."

I stare at him. Fuck.

"You can start when you're ready," prompts the sheriff.

I need a minute to think, so I wordlessly turn my back on him and open the cabinet. Rummage for a mug. Slowly. Take out the coffeepot and pour. Finally, I turn, mug in hand.

"Well, I'd just put Annaleigh down for her last nap around four when Josh started packing. I was upset because he didn't tell me about his trip. He insisted he did." I shrug as Deputy Adams scrawls on his notepad. "It's possible I forgot. I'm in the sleep-deprived stage of parenting."

"You need sleep, do you?" Mitchell's gaze seems to undress me, past the clothes, down to the bone.

"As much as anyone else. And I'm not getting much." I raise my mug. Hence the coffee, asshole.

Mitchell nods for me to continue.

"I followed Josh around while he packed. We were arguing. And... I opened a bottle of wine."

"Are you a heavy drinker, Miz Walden?"

"No. I bought it for us to drink together. You know, date night in. But Josh was leaving, and he was mad at me, so I opened it. I thought it would help me relax. Josh doesn't like it when I get stressed."

"And then?"

"He left."

"What time?"

"Um...six? I was a little drunk by then, honestly. And I'd put Annaleigh down for bed."

"She's a nursing infant, correct?" says the sheriff. "But you still chose to become inebriated?"

My cheeks flush. "Pump and dump."

"Go on," says Mitchell.

"While Josh was putting his gear in the car, I texted my friend. Andy." I think I'm doing okay. If I can just skip past the gaps like they're not there...

"Do you make a habit of inviting male friends over when your husband is gone?"

I flush hotter, but force myself to maintain eye contact.

"I didn't want to be alone. Then I felt terrible that I was making Andy go out of his way. I actually texted him again and told him not to come after all." I don't remember doing this, but I've seen the texts. "But he didn't listen."

"Mr. Wekstein lives in Los Angeles, correct?" says Mitchell.

"Yes."

"What's he doing in Indiana?"

"He teaches at IU."

"If your husband left at six, and witnesses saw him set up his tent around ten, how do you explain that the two-hour trip to Belmont Ridge took him four?" Mitchell steeples his fingers by his lips.

I shrug, as if this doesn't alarm me, even though it totally does. "Maybe he stopped for gas? Dinner?" The idea is reasonable, but I don't quite believe it. Josh has always been the kind of guy who doesn't like to stop. Not even for a needed bathroom break.

"And what happened after Andy arrived?" coaxes Mitchell.

"He knew I was upset, and that it was about more than the hiking trip, and I ended up telling him..." God, I hope I'm not making a terrible mistake. My heart starts pounding so hard, I'm pretty sure they can see my shirt vibrating from across the kitchen. "Josh and I did have this...recurring fight. It's probably just one of those things. That people fight about."

Mitchell waits. Even Adams stops writing.

I have to force the words out. "Josh thought Andy was in love with me."

Adams's eyes widen, round and blue, then descend to his notepad. He scribbles furiously.

"That's what we were really arguing about while he was packing." I turn to refill my mug. I'm surprised to find it empty since I don't remember drinking it. But the taste of coffee is in my mouth, so I must have. Why can't I remember, though? Not just drinking coffee, but Saturday night. Even as I talk about it, my memories seem to move and resettle, like I'm sifting through sand instead of hard facts.

"It wasn't the first time," I continue, my back still to the men. "I was tired of the same old argument, so when Andy showed up, I asked him to please work it out with Josh. You know, man-to-man. That's why they were meeting for breakfast. I think I told you that when you were here on Wednesday." I pour the coffee. My hand is shaking. It's a miracle I don't spill. I finally turn back around.

"Yes, we spoke to Mr. Wekstein that day," says Mitchell. "What I'd like to know is why you told us that the two of them were..." He gestures to Adams, who flips back a couple pages in his notebook.

"Friendly," Adams says eagerly.

"Yes." The sheriff smiles. "Friendly."

"Well...they are. Were. Have been. I mean, they met on the show last year. They got along great. Andy even gave me away at our wedding. I love Josh—and Josh knows that. He just has this jealous side, you know, like guys do. He and Andy...they just needed to talk it out."

"And?" There's a lurid sheen to the sheriff's question, like he's peeling back the curtain on something obscene.

"And what?"

"Is Andy Wekstein in love with you, Julia?"

I plan on saying no. Of course not! But instead, my hand wanders up to my neck, cupping my frantic pulse.

"Sir, I'm not sure that question is fair," objects Adams, but Mitchell holds up a palm.

"Let her answer."

I don't want to make trouble for Andy. On the other hand, Mitchell will latch on to anything to make sure I burn. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to draw a little attention to Andy. He can take the heat. If he's innocent, it won't hurt him in the long run. Not to mention, Andy has access to some of the best lawyers in the nation. I'm the vulnerable one.

"I..." Tightening my hands around my coffee, I bring the hot rim to rest under my lips. Breathe. "Yes. I think he might be."

Instantly I feel sick to my stomach. For throwing Andy under the bus, and also because deep down, I find this possibility incredibly disturbing. I don't want Andy to think of me that way. I want him to be the safe older brother who's looking out for me.

Mitchell's eyes appraise me. "Do you think Royce Sullivan loved his victims, Julia? I've often wondered about the psychology behind dismembering one's romantic partner...twenty-two times. You must have wondered, too, living on his old property. Did he cut them to pieces so he could keep them? Did he feel love as his axe struck? Is it possible to love something so much you have to destroy it, just so it doesn't ever leave you?"

My chest burns and my throat tightens, as if physical hands are squeezing it from behind.

His question is clear.

"I would never hurt Josh. If he wanted to leave me, I would let him go, free. And whole."

Mitchell cocks his head. "Even if it hurt, Julia?"

I blink fast, trying to dispel the image of Josh in this very kitchen, trying to delete Andy's number from my cell phone as I tried to grab it back—

"When you love someone, sometimes..." I swallow. "Sometimes you let them hurt you."

"A dark view of love."

Dark? Maybe. Certainly not aspirational. But the reality is, love and pain can't be separated. Love opens you to hurt, and if you want love, you have to take the hurt, too.

"Realistic, I think." I can hear the thinness in my own voice.

Mitchell finally breaks eye contact, and I sag.

"You got all that?" he says to Adams.

"Yes, sir." Adams wraps up his note-taking with a flourish.

"Thank you for your time, Miz Walden." Mitchell and Adams both scrape their chairs back and stand.

"Wait—the development. You said there was something new."

"Oh...yes. The development." Mitchell smiles. "Funny, what with you living on Royce's old place..." He gestures to his elbow. "We found your husband's severed arm."

Blazing hot coffee is burning my hands before I even realize that it's my own electrified shaking that's spilling it. My fingers release on instinct. The mug shatters against the tile floor. Captain barks. Gripping the counter with one hand, I hold my other hand out toward my dog so he doesn't try to cross the minefield the kitchen floor has become.

"Forensics has informed me that the arm was cut from a dead body, not a living one," drawls Mitchell. "Funny how they can tell, isn't it? Which brings me to this, Miz Walden. We no longer have a missing person case on our hands." He calmly returns his hat to his head as if there's not coffee and broken glass all over the floor. "This is a murder investigation. And if things go my way, next time I see you will be with a warrant for your arrest."

"Sir," rebukes Adams, his face reddening. "With all due respect, let's not forget that Julia—I mean, Miz Walden—is presumed innocent until—"

"Proven guilty," finishes the sheriff with a grin toward me. Adams tightens his lips and looks down like he's ashamed.

"Why do you only seem to be coming after me?" I explode.

The sheriff walks out of the kitchen.

I follow, frantic. "Wait! I didn't kill him. You have to believe me. There are so many other people that could have—My neighbor Bob! He hates us. This—this crazy lady, she attacked me in California during filming, and I just found out she lives here—Oh—Josh's old girlfriend—she was a stalker! Everyone here hates us, it could have been anyone—I have bins of hate mail, maybe there could be a lead in there, a clue—" I know I sound like I'm trying to hide my guilt in this spastic avalanche of information, but I can't let him walk away like this, without even giving me a chance. "Aren't you going to write that down?" I look at Adams. We've reached the foyer. "I'm giving you leads! Please! You have to look into them!"

Adams reaches for his pen; Mitchell's head twitches no. Then his expression goes funny. "Is that—" Mitchell looks down, turns in a slow circle. Bends, until he's on all fours. He reaches under the entryway bench, behind the row of shoes and, after gesturing for Adams's pen, pulls out...

A silver watch.

The sound is suddenly overwhelming. Tick-tick-tick.

"I thought I heard a ticking sound." Mitchell straightens up, the watch dangling from the pen. "Still working. But cracked. This your husband's?"

I nod mutely. Adams withdraws a clear baggie. I know what they're thinking. Evidence. My heart is a monster trying to maul me from within.

"Does he normally wear it when he goes out?"

I nod again, like a marionette being yanked.

Mitchell steps close, the watch lifted between us, its metronome pounding. He lowers his voice. "Why is your husband's broken watch under there, Julia?"

I look at the blue face, the silver slashes, the jolt of the hand marking the seconds. It's going too fast, isn't it, and it's uneven, some seconds short, some long—

"Did you kill your husband? Did you take off his watch before severing his arm, or after? It was the left one, did I mention that? His watch arm—with the ring finger missing. Flung into the woods like someone tried to feed it to the animals...and, I should mention, an animal or two did find it, and the ants, dear Lord, it was like an oil spill, all those little black crawlers feasting, a real picnic..."

I can't speak.

The sheriff steps back and tips his hat in a gentlemanly gesture. He doesn't smile.

"No further questions."