"Ma'am-"

I hung up and phoned Lisa's office. When I told the secretary it was an emergency, she put me right through. My voice faltered as I told her the news.

"I'm on my way," Lisa said.

"What should I do until you arrive?"

"When the cops show up, be cooperative, but say as little as possible." I could tell by her breathing that she was already on the move. "If detectives get there before I do, explain that Sharon was about to make a statement in an investigation and that you've asked your lawyer to join you to help provide information. Do your best to avoid any press."

Next I texted a single word to Alex: "Urgent."

In under five minutes, two uniformed patrol cops pulled up in a cruiser. I stepped forward and introduced myself. Briefly, I described the scene and turned over the key.

"We need you to come upstairs with us, okay?" the older one said.

I didn't want to go back up there, but I knew it wouldn't do any good to protest. I'd reported the crime, and they needed to keep me in their sights until I could be questioned.

We rode to the sixth floor with them asking for a few more details. As we stepped off the elevator, I pointed quickly to the apartment, a few doors to the left. The older cop whispered that I should go to the end of the hallway and wait there. As I retreated, I saw one of the cops touch his hand to his gun as the other unlocked the door and opened it. They vanished inside.

I leaned back against the wall, steadying myself. I felt my whole body being compressed downward, crushed by grief and guilt. I kept flashing back and forth between the Sharon of last night, so excited to have dinner alone in the city, and the Sharon lying on the floor with her head bashed in.

Had Vicky done this? Was she more ruthless and dangerous than I'd even imagined?

How would she have known Sharon was here? I recalled something Sharon had said to me about her boyfriend last night: He's proud of me for doing this. Though Alex and I had stressed to her the importance of guarding our plan, she'd obviously leaked it to her guy. And maybe someone else.

The corridor was stifling, as if there were no AC flowing through it. The foul smell from the apartment seemed to be seeping in my direction, and I kept fighting the urge to gag.

The two patrol cops reemerged. They took down basic info from me and then began going up and down the length of the hall; they looked in the room with the trash compactor and strung yellow crime scene tape across it. After they'd finished, one of the cops boarded the elevator, and the other walked back toward me. Detectives would be arriving soon, he said. Then he returned to the door of the apartment and stood guard.

I felt desperate to talk to Lisa. I wondered how I'd be able to connect with her. The cops weren't going to allow me downstairs yet, and they surely wouldn't clear Lisa to come up here. Discreetly, I sent her a text explaining where I was.

Two detectives arrived about ten minutes later, an older white male and a younger female, African-American. I could tell from her eyes that the woman recognized me, though she might not have known from where. After introducing themselves-Hogan and Stainback-they asked me a few basic questions and told me to wait. Then they snapped on latex gloves, slipped on booties, and entered the apartment.

For the next twenty-five minutes, I waited, feeling more and more frantic. A few people poked their heads out of their apartments, curious about the noise in the hallway, but they were told by one of the patrol cops to step back inside and wait for the police to come by. Soon another group of cops arrived, wearing jackets imprinted with CSU.

Finally, Detective Hogan appeared again and strode back down the hall toward me. "Ms. Trainer," he said, "we'll need you to stop by the precinct to make a full statement, but I'd like to ask you a few more questions here first, if that's okay."

"Of course," I said.

"Why don't we go downstairs and have a seat in the lobby. It'll be more comfortable."

"Thanks. I'd appreciate that." Cooperative, just as Lisa had advised.

There were two plaid armchairs against the far wall of the lobby, and Hogan gestured for me to sit in one while he took the other. Detective Stainback stood near my chair. Hogan tugged a notebook from his inside jacket pocket. Something about that notebook made everything more real. I could feel grief welling up in me. Sharon had come to my rescue, and now she was dead.

"I know this is upsetting," Hogan said. "But do the best you can."

He asked me to describe my relationship with the victim and how I happened to be at the scene. I kept it short and basic, as Lisa had recommended: who Sharon was, how I'd arranged for her to travel to the city to make a statement in an investigation, and how I'd hurried here when she failed to show for an appointment.

"What kind of investigation?" Hogan said. "Are we talking investigative journalism?" Stainback must have filled him in on who I was. I told him no, it was more complicated than that, and as pleasantly as I could muster explained that I would prefer to have my lawyer with me when I shared the details.

He shrugged, not pleased, and then moved on to questions about the crime scene: Did I touch anything, was the door locked or unlocked, was the AC off in the living room when I arrived, did I see anyone at all in the vicinity?

While we spoke, another vehicle arrived, and two men rolled a stretcher into the lobby and onto the elevator. It wouldn't be long before the press descended. I kept slipping a look at my watch, praying Lisa would show.

And then there she was. I could see her through the gla.s.s half of the front door, dressed in a beige suit and standing next to a guy of about thirty.

"My lawyer is here now," I said, leaning forward. "I need to fill her in."

A look pa.s.sed between the two detectives, one I couldn't interpret. Hogan announced that he'd like me to go to the precinct on Sixty-seventh Street as soon as possible and give a full statement. Detective Stainback, he said, would meet me there. I nodded in compliance.

As soon as I'd stepped outside, where a throng of people had gathered on the sidewalk, Lisa touched a finger discreetly to her lips in warning and then introduced me to her a.s.sociate, Colin something. The three of us walked silently down Lexington Avenue for almost a block. People traipsed by in the heat, taxis flew down the street, but all of that seemed to be part of a parallel universe, a world I'd been accidentally dislodged from. When we neared the corner, I told the two lawyers that the police wanted me to make a statement at the precinct.

"Let's talk for a minute first," Lisa said, continuing to walk. "Could you tell how Sharon had been killed?"

I ran through everything I'd seen.

"Do you think the murder had just happened?"

I shook my head. "No. She was wearing the same clothes she had on yesterday, and there was a smell, like her body had been decomposing. It seems like she must have been killed yesterday evening sometime."

"I need to ask you," Lisa said quietly, "where were you last night?"

"What?" I said, coming to a complete stop. "You think-?"

"No, of course not, but the police are going to wonder."

"I was home," I said. "My doorman can vouch for me. I ran out once for ice cream, but I was gone just a few minutes."

"This isn't my area of law-and we may need to bring in a criminal lawyer at some point-but the first person the police focus on during a homicide investigation is the one who found the body. They may suspect there's something you're not telling."

I felt another jolt of fear. "What if Vicky killed Sharon but made it appear somehow that I did?" I said. "That's been her MO with everything else."

Lisa pursed her lips. I could tell my comment worried her. "From what you've said about the crime scene, it sounds like the murder happened in the heat of the moment, and so whoever did it probably didn't have time to frame you," she said. "You have nothing to hide, so just tell your story. I'll be in the room with you, so watch me, okay? I'll flash you a sign with my eyes if you're going somewhere I don't like. They're going to seem real sympathetic at first-lots of 'This must be very upsetting' stuff."

"Yeah, they've already done that," I said.

"Then they'll start to narrow their focus, press you more, ask for your alibi."

"Should I tell them about Vicky?"

"Yes," she said. "You're going to have to."

We hailed a cab and took it to the precinct. The situation unfolded the way Lisa had predicted. Stainback was there with a new guy named Nowak, who seemed the most senior of all the cops I'd dealt with. For a few minutes, they employed the feigned-concern-for-what-I'd-been-through tactic and then began to lob tougher questions. I willed myself to stay calm.

When I explained about Vicky and Sharon's connection to her, neither detective could disguise surprise. Though I hated dragging Alex into the investigation, I had no choice but to mention the role he'd played in locating Sharon.

"I've never had any actual proof that Vicky Cruz did those things to me," I said at the end, "but there was circ.u.mstantial evidence, and Sharon's story seemed to bolster it all. I had no idea I was putting Sharon in any danger when she came here. I just wanted to clear my name."

"In addition to you and Mr. Lucca, who knew Ms. Hayes was here in Manhattan?" Nowak asked.

"Her boyfriend apparently. Beyond that, I don't know."

They asked for Potts's contact info, and I wrote it out for them.

"There's just one more thing," I said. "Sharon was going to bring a photograph with her of a Barbie doll that she believed Vicky Cruz had left in her mailbox years ago. If you find it, could you give me a copy?"

Nowak said that he wasn't sure if that would be possible.

"Good job," Lisa said once we were outside. "I'm going to reach out to Potts now. I want to beat the police to it."

I said goodbye and, desperate to be home, headed toward Third Avenue to hunt down a cab. Within seconds, I could feel fear galloping up on me again. If Vicky had killed Sharon, did that mean my life could be in danger? I flashed on my experience in Westport, the silhouette on the curtain.

As soon as I was in the cab, I checked my phone. Alex had called three times while I was being grilled by the police.

"My G.o.d, this is awful," he exclaimed when I shared the details. "It's too big of a coincidence for it not to be related to your case. Vicky must have found out that Sharon was here."

"Do you know if Vicky was at work yesterday?" I asked.

"Yes, her show was live. I saw her on the floor once."

"She could have slipped out in the late afternoon. Or gone to the apartment after the show."

"Do you think she went there with a plan to kill Sharon?" Alex asked.

"The murder didn't appear premeditated. She might have stopped by, hoping to reason with Sharon, convince her not to go public. When Sharon refused, she could have become enraged and struck her with the first object she laid her hands on."

"I'm going to see what I can find out from a buddy in the DA's office."

"By the way, I had to give your name to the cops, Alex. I'm so sorry to drag you into this."

"Don't worry about it. Look, I need to book a guest for tomorrow. But I want to talk more about this later. How are you doing?"

"I won't lie, I'm pretty shaken. You want to come by after the show again?"

"Sure. Hang in there till then. And Robin? Be careful, okay?"

I practically stumbled into my apartment. As soon as I closed the door, I let the tears come. For Sharon. Each time I'd spoken to her, I'd been so caught up with my own cause that I hadn't focused on what she'd been through. She'd lost a job she loved, too. And been framed by an evil woman. And now she had died trying to clear her name and help me do the same.

Around four, Lisa rang. From what she could infer, she'd reached Potts before the cops. She said he'd listened intently and asked her to meet him at the University Club at eleven the next day.

I'd no sooner disconnected than the phone rang and I saw Ann's name on the screen.

"There's something going on," she told me. "Lots of closed doors, and Potts wants me on call tonight. I don't know if it has anything to do with you, but I thought you should be aware of it."

"Thanks," I said. "It might have to do with me. I can't reveal anything more right this minute."

"Do you want me to see what I can find out?"

"Um . . . yeah. But please don't bring up my name."

"Right. I'll be in touch if I hear anything."

"Okay. Thank you." I'd almost not uttered those last two words, but they'd slipped out nonetheless.

"You're welcome, Robin. I'm going to prove I'm not the person you thought I was a few days ago."

Alex arrived at 8:45, his face grim. Instinctively, we hugged as soon as he'd stepped through the doorway.

"Are you still reeling?" he said.

"It just keeps running through my mind on this horrific loop."

I led him into the living room.

"You hear from the cops?" I asked.

"Yeah. Thankfully, they let me drop by the precinct at around five rather than having them show up at work."

"It went okay?"

"Yeah, I think so. It was a little bit weird when they asked what I was doing last night. I know that's routine, but it's unsettling."

"Were they okay with your alibi?"

"I don't really have one. I went home after work, crashed on my couch, and never saw a soul."

"They can't for a second believe you were involved."

"It doesn't seem so. Mostly, they wanted to know background information. Why Sharon was here, why I was helping you, my thoughts on Vicky."

"It's got to be Vicky, right?"

"I would think so. Tell me about the crime scene, will you? So far I haven't been able to glean anything from my contacts."

"Lots of blood. Not only on the rug but arcs of it on the wall. There was a decorative urn lying on the floor, and I'm a.s.suming she was struck with that."

"More than once, obviously."

"How do you know?"

"I was at plenty of crime scenes in my old job. If Sharon had been struck just once, the blood would have leaked from her head onto the floor. Blood on the wall means someone hit her at least twice. When you strike an open wound, it's similar to splashing in a puddle."

Cringing, I pressed my hands to my face. "I feel responsible. Like I beckoned Sharon to her death. And all for my job. She died because I wanted to get back on the air."

"Hey, don't think that way," Alex said, touching my shoulder. We were still standing in the middle of the living room. "Neither one of us ever antic.i.p.ated anything like this."

"It's just all so horrible."