Handcuffed to the underside of a steel table and covered in a stranger’s blood wasn’t how I ever expected to spend a Saturday night, but it was the position I had somehow gotten myself into.

The events that got me there, however, were a blur.

A violent bloody blur that ended with one loud boom.

A single shot from a pistol released a bullet that tore through his flesh, pierced his skull, and killed him instantly.

I lifted my head from the cold surface of the table. My eyes aimlessly wandered around the empty room, struggling to adjust beyond the tears and confusion. I noticed cameras in the two corners of the ceiling across from me, and I was sure they were recording my every move.

The severity of what happened began to sink into my stomach like a heavy stone.

I lowered my head onto my one free arm, closed my eyes, and tried to remember exactly what happened. The scene played in my head like the trailer for a Hollywood movie, hitting only the highlights. Screaming. Blood. The sound of breaking bones. And then, a gunshot.

Bile rose in my throat. Upon reaching the back of my tongue, the vile substance caused my stomach to heave. Fearing I was going to vomit, I instinctively raised my hands to my mouth. Or, at least I tried. The metallic clank and a resistant jerk on my left hand stopped me short.

Once again, a reminder of what I had done.

The door unlocked, and then swung open. A man and a woman sauntered into the room.

“I’m Detective Jones,” the man said.

The woman sat down across from me. “You can call me Jacky.”

Jones methodically paced the floor behind her. Each time he passed the table, the smell of stale cigarette smoke followed him. The dark skin underneath his eyes combined with his gaunt cheeks and unkempt hair made it look like he hadn’t eaten or slept in a week.

He stopped pacing, turned to face me, and scratched his head feverishly with both hands. After a moment, he paused, and then met my gaze. His stare was intense, and his expression was one of disbelief.

My eyes fell to the table.

“Are you paying attention, Miss. West?”

I looked up. “Uh huh.”

I didn’t belong there. It should have never happened, but it did. I was sure of it. I heard the boom, and I saw the blood. I shook my head, hoping to rid my mind of my spotty recollection of what transpired.

He shook his head lightly and shot me a condescending look. “You look like shit.”

“I feel…I uhhm. I think I’m going to be sick,” I murmured.

“I’d feel sick, too. I mean, shit, you just killed a guy. Blew his fucking head all over La Quinta Ave. We picked up the pieces and put ‘em in a little plastic bag.” He cocked an eyebrow. “How’s that make you feel, being a murderer?”

My head began to spin. I struggled to recall exactly what happened, but could only resurrect the horrific portions that came in unwelcomed flashes of memory.

Jones clasped the end of the table in his hands, leaned down, and cleared his throat. “So, you pointed the gun at him, and then shouted for him to stop. You told the patrol officer on the scene that you gave that command. Stop, or I’ll shoot.”

“Uhhm…” I tried to swallow, but my dry throat prevented it. “I don’t. He was uhhm…”

“Stop or I’ll shoot. That’s what you said, right?”

“It was…”

“Stop or I’ll shoot. You said that. Stop or I’ll shoot. What were you prepared to do if he didn’t stop, Miss West?”

Tears rolled down my cheeks. “He was…”

He slapped the table with his hand. “Stop or I’ll shoot,” he shouted. “You said that, right?”

I closed my eyes.

It wasn’t what I’d said. I didn’t say anything. Not that I could remember, anyway. I simply pulled the trigger.

“And then, when he didn’t, you shot him? In the face, I might add.”

I didn’t remember shooting him in the face. I didn’t remember shooting him at all. The last thing I could remember was yelling at him. I wanted him to stop. I needed him to stop.

But, he didn’t.

“I uhhm. I think I yelled at him. I don’t know,” I muttered. “I’m not sure what I. I don’t know.”

“Stop, or I’ll shoot.” His eyebrows raised slightly. “And then you shot him in the face.”

“I don’t.” I lowered my head onto the table. The more I thought about it, the more the memories became scrambled. I looked up. “I don’t remember doing that.”

He pushed himself away from the table and shot me a look. “Are you suggesting that someone else shot him?”

“I don’t…”

“Your fingerprints are all over the gun, Miss West. I’d love to hear a different version of the story, though.” He chuckled, and then looked at Jacky. “How about you, Jacky? You want to hear how someone walked up, took the gun from her hand, shot the guy, wiped off his prints, put the gun back in her hand, and then ran away?”

Jacky extended her left arm, a silent suggestion for Jones to back away from the table. When he complied, she turned to face me and smiled. “Do you want something to drink, hun? You don’t look like you’re feeling well.”

“I uhhm. I’d like a Sprite. Or a 7-Up. Can I have one of those?”

“Sure,” she said with a nod. “I’ll be right back.”

She stood, looked at Jones, and then left the room. Jones paced for a moment, and then stopped directly across from me. His tired eyes met mine.

“That gun you shot him with is a pretty unique piece. Ruger SP-101. Five-shot .357 magnum with a 2” barrel. With that short barrel, they kick like a fuckin mule, huh?”

I glanced at my right hand. Amidst the dried blood, a bruise was clearly visible on my wrist. As I gazed at the discolored skin, I remembered pulling the trigger, and how much the pistol’s recoil hurt.

I nodded. “Uh huh.”

“So, do you remember shooting him now?”

I didn’t remember shooting him, I only remembered the boom and the blinding flash of light.

I looked at him. My eyes felt itchy. “I uhhm.”

The door opened, and Jacky walked in. After sitting down across from me, she poured some soda in a cup and slid it across the table. “Have a drink, it’ll make you feel better.”

Jones tossed a yellow notepad and a pen beside me. “While you’re sipping that soda, why don’t you write down what happened? Every detail. How you told him to stop, and then how you shot him. I’d get him to write it down, but he’s in the morgue. His family’s going to be planning his funeral, Miss. West. You telling the truth will help them put this to rest. That makes sense, doesn’t it?”

It didn’t.

The guy was a piece of shit. I did the world – and his family – a favor. It may sound harsh, but it was the truth.

I took a sip of soda, and glanced at the notepad. After another drink, I reached for the pen. I closed my eyes and tried to recall exactly what happened. The sound of the door unlocking caused me to look up.

A handsome man who was wearing slacks and a dress blazer walked in.

Jacky stood and gave a sharp nod toward the man. “Detective Watson.”

Jones looked nervous. He extended his hand. “Watson.”

Watson looked at Jones, didn’t shake his hand, and then shot a quick glance at me. He nodded his head once as if affirming my presence and then turned toward the two outwardly nervous detectives.

He cleared his throat. “Jones. Trovetti. I’ll be taking this investigation over.”

“Hold up,” Jones said. “This is our murder collar. You’re not going to--”

“Yes, I am.” Watson reached for the chair Jacky had been sitting in, and then paused. “If you’ve got a problem with it, talk to the commissioner.”

Jones’ eyes widened. “The commissioner?”

Watson motioned toward the door. “Close that on your way out, would you?”

Jones pressed his hands against his hips and blinked a few times. “The commissioner?”

Watson nodded. “Yeah, the commissioner. Remember him? He’s a tall fucker with thick curly hair and an addiction to sunflower seeds. His office is at the end of the hallway on the seventh floor. He’s got a plaque on the door in case you get confused on which office is his.” He tilted his head toward the door. “Go ask him, but don’t forget to get the door on the way out.”

Jacky and Jones exchanged an awkward glance, and then left the room.

Watson sat across from me, leaned forward, and looked me in the eyes. He didn’t smell like stale cigarettes or resemble the walking dead. The air around him smelled like expensive cologne, and he looked like an athlete.

He held my gaze, cupped his hands around his mouth, and then looked down at the table. I wondered if he was mad, or if he was thinking or praying. Then, he spoke.

Well, kind of.

“Say I want an attorney present, and say it loudly,” he whispered.

What he said was almost inaudible, but I understood him.

I blinked my eyes in disbelief.

“Say it,” he whispered.

I wondered why he was helping me, but didn’t dare ask. I looked at the camera, cleared my throat, and made the declaration.

“I want an attorney present.”

He looked up. His eyebrow arched. “Excuse me?”

“I want an…I want to have an attorney present.”

“If that’s how you want to play this.” He pushed himself away from the table and stood. “Fine. I’ll take you to the phone.”

He uncuffed me and motioned toward the door. “Second door on your right. I’ll follow you, it’s procedure.”

I walked down the hall, and into a much larger room than the one I had been in. A wooden table surrounded by chairs was in the center of the room, and at the edge of the table, a phone sat.

Watson pulled the door closed behind him. “This is a private room. What you say here isn’t recorded. You’re not going to call an attorney.”

Even more confused than I was before, I stared back at him, blankly.

He met my muddled gaze. “You’re going to call Alexandra.”

“Lex?”

He nodded. “Tell her you’ve been arrested for murder, and that you need Jay Parsons.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. He just as well had spoke to me in Italian. It would have made an equal amount of sense. My wide-eyed stare must have prompted him to explain further, because that’s what he did.

“Lex, I’ve been arrested on a murder charge, and I need you to call Jay Parsons. They want to interrogate me, and I need an attorney. That’s what you’ll say,” he said. “No more, no less. Understand?”

“Okay.”

The look on his face changed to concern. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll be…yeah. I’m uhhm. I’m fine.” I nodded, more to convince myself than to reassure him. “Is she uhhm…”

A flash of memory came to mind, and it wasn’t something I ever wanted to see again. Panic shot up my throat, choking me from continuing. I fought against it, wiped my tears, and looked up. I needed to know. “She didn’t uhhm. Is she alive?”

He reached for my shoulder and gave a nod of reassurance. “I just left the hospital. She’s alive, yes.”

“She’s not going to die?”

“She’ll recover fully. That’s what the doctor said, I can promise you that.”

Emotion washed over me, and I blubbered for an instant. After regaining what little composure I could, I wiped my eyes with the heels of my palms. “Thank you.”

He released my shoulder. “I’m going to leave the room, and as soon as I do, you need to make that call.”

“But, she’s okay? Right?”

“She looks like hell, but I promise you, she’ll be okay.”

“Why. Why uhhm. Why are you helping me?”

“Because you’ve got something I need,” he said.

Then, he turned around and left the room.