Blood Sugar(56)

Two months had passed since my chat at the police station with Detective Jackson. And as I feared and Roman expected, the detective had been quietly busy at work, pulling together a case against me. Which was now strong enough to get a judge to grant him a search warrant for my house. Roman had anticipated this and started working from Miami full-time for a few weeks so he could make sure to be with me if and when the police came knocking.

While my house continued to be searched, Roman and I sat in my car in the driveway. I kept the engine running so the air conditioner could stay on and keep us cool. Mr. Cat was crammed in his carrier in the back seat. I had to get him contained and out of the house, worried he would be so scared of all the strangers and all the commotion that he would somehow escape, never to be seen again. He was meowing like crazy, furious about the entire situation. I told him, “I know, buddy. I know.”

Roman eyed Detective Jackson as he gave orders to others and said to me, “He’s convinced you did it, and he’s not going to let it go.”

“But I didn’t do it.”

“Well, even if there’s no evidence in there, he’ll keep trying to find some. I’ve dealt with guys like him. Good cops who actually care, who work beyond their approved overtime, even when they aren’t getting paid. He’s trying to prove what he’s already certain about. We call people like him true believers. They’re relentless.”

The irony here was that I usually respected people like that. Since I was one of them. As we waited, I imagined I could hear Roman’s watch ticking, but I knew it was one of the really expensive kinds that doesn’t make a sound. The ticking was in my head.

I then saw my laptop being walked out in an evidence bag. I pictured some tech person combing through it looking for some sketchy Google search about getting away with murder. They would think I tried to hide something by wiping most of my emails clean. They wouldn’t understand that I always keep my computer as tidy as my desk drawer. Deleting anything I deem as clutter. It’s not that I was trying to destroy evidence; it’s that I am uptight and organized.

I knew the police had already gotten a warrant for my phone records. That was the dig about Dr. Hamilton refilling Mr. Cat’s prescription. Now Detective Jackson didn’t have to pretend he was in touch with my veterinarian to rattle me, like he had in the interrogation room, because at this point he actually was in touch with him. Other than Ellie and Jason, the number I called and texted most over the past several years belonged to the exceedingly handsome forty-something animal doctor with longish jet-black hair and eyes so dark his pupils were hidden in plain sight. And he had recently gotten a divorce. This was all enough to convince the true believer detective that I was having an affair. Another motive to kill Jason.

Ever since my first appointment with Dr. Hamilton, we had kept in touch. I gave money to his fund to treat stray dogs. He donated to my fund to support continued therapy for juvenile delinquents. We saw each other at least twice a year for Mr. Cat’s usual checkups and the occasional cut on a paw or dental cleaning. Once Kangaroo came into the picture, there were many more visits. She needed medicine because she ate three of my makeup-remover wipes and had a stomachache. She needed a few stitches because she sat on a pointy rock and sliced open her thigh. She needed special shampoo because she developed an allergy to down pillows. Between the two pets, it was always something. A rash, a cut, a nose that felt too dry.

And then Kangaroo died, and Dr. Hamilton sent beautiful flowers and a note addressed to both me and Jason, expressing his condolences and his own personal sorrow that she was no longer with us. On the note he included his cell number and told us if we needed anything, we shouldn’t hesitate to reach out. So I texted him a thank-you. Then, once Mr. Cat got deathly ill and I was tasked with giving him daily insulin shots and monitoring his eating, I texted Dr. Hamilton a lot more. Sometimes late at night. Mostly about the cat.

Of course Dr. Hamilton, who I at this point in our relationship called Marco, denied an affair as well. He called me immediately when Detective Jackson showed up at his clinic. He explained to the nosy detective that I was a client of his for many years. He was my veterinarian, and over time our acquaintanceship turned into a friendship, but there was absolutely no affair. No photos. No sexting. No witnesses seeing us holding hands under a table at a café. The problem about all this, Roman said, is that you can’t prove something doesn’t exist. And Detective Jackson was certain that I was attracted to Marco. He saved my cat’s life, after all. And that kind of skill is very appealing. Sexy. What woman isn’t just a little turned on by competence?

The detective couldn’t have been more wrong. I did not have an affair. Yet he wasn’t stupid either. When I watched Marco in action, handling animals with empathy and confidence, I did have a fantasy or two. He was gentle and strong. Fair yet commanding. I imagined him telling me what to do in bed. “Now turn over.” “Now kiss me.” “Now open your legs. Good girl.”

But similar to thinking about Jason dying every so often, these fantasies about Marco were harmless and healthy. I knew this because it was my job as a psychologist to know. To separate whims from actions. I did not lie to Roman when he asked. I never cheated on Jason. Not once. Not physically or emotionally. The problem was, if he made the right phone calls, Detective Jackson eventually could prove what did exist.

More neighbors now stood around, watching. One woman at the end of my block sipped iced coffee while craning her neck, like my life being dismantled was a spectator sport. It occurred to me then that the police would interview everyone on my street, if they hadn’t already. And ask the same questions they asked the Vale neighbors the morning Richard was found dead. Did they ever hear any yelling from my house? Or see any physical altercations between me and Jason? Or notice any men other than Jason coming in and out at odd hours? Or women? Perhaps Detective Jackson would even show them all a picture of Marco, hoping to jog their memories.