Blood Sugar(49)

Jason also still owned his condo, which he continued to use as a rental property. This was great additional income for us. And when Jason’s father died, he left everything to Jason. Roman asked about the details of Jason’s early life, which propelled me into memories of going to the funeral in Morrow, Georgia. I told Roman how surreal it was for Jason to be there again, having not been back since he had left at age eighteen. Cindy, his high school sweetheart, came to the funeral to pay her respects. We learned that after Jason left town, she married one of his friends who consoled her in his absence. They had four children together. He worked at the local hardware store, and she managed a diner. She seemed like a happy person. She loved Georgia and never wanted to leave. I had a flash of judgment: How sad to live such a small life. But quickly realized ultimately I too had stayed in my own hometown. I wasn’t so different from Cindy.

At the gathering after the funeral, Cindy returned Jason’s class ring. She had kept it all those years thinking Jason might eventually want it back to pass onto his future son someday. Jason and I went through his father’s house. There wasn’t much there of value, but Jason kept a few sentimental things. A toolbox, his father’s military trunk. He was touched to see his father still had photographs of him as a boy lined up on the dusty mantel. Proof that even in those years they were estranged, his father wanted to see his face every day. Jason sold the house and the five acres it sat on. Between that and the money his frugal father had squirreled away, Jason inherited a little over $200,000.

So when Jason died, I got $300,000 in life insurance, a condo worth about $400,000, and $200,000 recently acquired from his father’s estate.

Roman said, “That’s almost a million dollars.”

“Yeah, I guess so. I’m not really focusing on money right now.”

Roman looked at me sternly. “That’s motive.”

“Not to me.”

Roman began a new line of questioning. “Did Jason have any enemies?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Is it possible someone did kill him and made it look like he died of natural causes?”

“I mean, technically, yes. But no. How? We were in bed together all night.”

“Okay.” Roman paused. “Do you have any enemies?”

“I don’t think so. No.”

It seemed the questions were now over. And the lecture was starting. Roman said if Detective Jackson were to ever show up at my house again, not to let him in. Unless, of course, he has a warrant. This all felt too real too quickly. “A warrant? Why would he have a warrant?” Roman ignored me and kept going. “Do not say another word to him without your lawyer present. Your lawyer being me. If he calls, send it to voicemail. If he ‘accidentally’ runs into you on the street, say the word lawyer and nothing else. Understand?” Yes, I understood. And the severity of my situation was slowly starting to become clear. But, Roman mused, it could be helpful to go into the station together the next day, seem cooperative, answer some easy questions, try to find out what the police knew, get ahead of some things so we wouldn’t be blindsided later if an arrest came.

I gasped. “An arrest?” I was blindsided the moment Roman said the word. It made me woozy. Like I was standing on a precipice and I just noticed I was wearing stilettos and the ground was dangerously uneven. I didn’t sleep at all that night. I was too nervous, steeling myself for battle the next day. That morning I had my coffee. Threw on some actual clothes and grabbed my purse. I drove to pick up Roman at his hotel, and we headed for the police station on Collins Avenue. Roman reminded me to say as little as possible. This was a fishing expedition. On both sides.





CHAPTER 34


    CLUTTER



I wanted to put on a fresh layer of lip gloss. Not because I cared about my appearance in front of Detective Jackson, but because I thought it might at least keep my lips warm. I reached back for my purse and pulled out my burnt-plum-blossom gloss. As I applied a quick coat, I was aware of the small space. Aware that my elbow nearly grazed the stiff broad shoulders only a few inches to my left. They belonged to Roman, who was quietly sitting next to me, on his own thin metal chair.

This whole time Roman had been expressionless and still, taking it all in, listening and looking and learning, assessing the situation, formulating a plan. He had barely made a peep, because making too much noise can scare away the fish. So his voice rang clear and loud when he did all of a sudden speak.

Roman asked me if I would like his jacket. Since the room was so cold. He was wearing a serious Washington, DC, navy blue suit. I said, “Yes, thank you.” He slid his bespoke silk-lined thin wool jacket off and passed it to me. I draped it around my shoulders. And immediately felt more comfortable. Like I had a new layer of armor. Detective Jackson, also clearly chilly, used this exchange to his advantage. He leaned a long arm over to the door handle and opened it a bit. He yelled out, “Can someone turn the air off in here?” He closed the door and crossed his legs the other way. Flashing an inch of skin on his other ankle. And we all heard the air click off.

Then, with no fanfare, the detective moved on to the final photo. It was easy to forget there was a fourth photo still facedown on the table, because what and who could be more devastating than seeing a smiling, living, breathing Jason? Detective Jackson turned the last photo over. I saw thin dishwater-brown hair and a pointy nose. It was a DMV picture of the Witch, Evelyn W.