It’s not every day you read about your husband going to jail in the papers. That’s one way to find out, I guess.

My heels click on the sidewalk as I make my way down to the end of the block so I can get home. The bags from the grocery on the corner dig into my arm.

It hurts after a few blocks, but I don’t care. I let the pain sink in and focus on the front door to my townhouse.

It doesn’t take long for my gaze to break.

Standing in front of the building, dressed in all blue and complete with the cap, is a female cop. She’s short and blonde, with her hair pulled back into a low bun. My steps slow as I spot her and I want to break down again.

If only I’d stayed holed up in the apartment and didn’t have to eat. The thought is bitter and I push myself to walk forward. Each step hurts more and more.

I must still love the asshole, ‘cause knowing he’s in trouble hurts down to my core.

It was the sign that I was looking for though. The one that put the nail in the coffin to my marriage.

“Mrs. Thompson,” the cop says as I walk up to the stone steps.

“Hello,” I say awkwardly. Not wanting to even look her in the eyes as the shame creeps up and makes the cold air feel even colder.

“I’m Detective Nicoli,” the woman says and I nod my head, feeling the pinch of the plastic bags dig even deeper into my forearm as I shift on my feet.

“How can I help you, Detective?” I ask her and force myself to straighten my shoulders.

“Could I come in?” she asks me, as if I’d let her.

“I’d rather not,” I answer, my voice a bit harsh. I struggle with the bags slightly, hearing them crinkle as I let out a low sigh. “It’s been a long few days,” I tell her.

“The bags under your eyes could have told me that,” she says with no sympathy in her tone.

I huff out, “Thanks,” with the intention of walking right by her and into the townhouse, but then she adds, “I’m sorry for what you’re going through.”

And I hesitate.

I stand there, taking it. Taking the sympathy but more than that, needing it. Tears burn my eyes as I look back at her. “What do you want?” I ask her.

“It would be better for you if I could come in?” she suggests, looking pointedly at the bags on my arm.

I shake my head. That’s not happening.

The charge is murder if the papers are telling the truth.

I’m not interested in hearing from anyone other than my husband.

“Just ask me whatever you want,” I tell her and lick my lower lip.

“I know you two are getting a divorce,” she starts and the article from two days ago flashes in my memory.

All about how Evan lost his job, his wife and now he’s being charged with murder. My heart twists just the same as it did when I read it.

“I wanted to know if you had any information at all that you’d like to give us,” Detective Nicoli says and I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

“Look, I know this is hard, but anything you can give us would be appreciated.”

I stare straight into her eyes and I hope she feels all the hatred in my gaze.

“I don’t have anything I’d like to tell you,” I sneer. I’ve had to talk to cops before. I never said a word. And I’m sure as hell not going to now.

Not when what I say would contribute to losing him forever.

“Did you know Tony Lewis?” she asks and I shake my head. Again not wanting to speak, but she waits for me to say it out loud. The pen in her hand pressed to the pad.

“Never met him.”

“Do you know where your husband would go to acquire cocaine?”

My expression turns hard as I tell her, “My husband doesn’t do coke.” I want to add anymore. He’s done it before. He told me. He’s done a lot of shit that I’m ashamed of, but that was before me.

Detective Nicoli smirks at me and flips the page over in her notepad then says, “We’ll have the warrant for a sample from him soon.”

Absently my hand drifts to my stomach, to where our baby is growing, as if protecting this little one will protect Evan. But I’m quick to pull it back as one of the heavier bags slips forward on my arm.

She doesn’t need to know, but I want to tell her. I want to tell the world my Evan could never do what they’re saying he did. But I don’t tell her a damn thing.

“Good for you,” I tell her and start to walk past her again. I shove the key into the lock and turn it, but before I can open it, the cop leans against the door and waits for me to look at her.

“Get out of my way,” I seethe, my anger coming through. Anger at Evan, anger at her.

“Someone’s going down for Tony Lewis’ death.”

“Someone should, but my husband is not a murderer,” I finally snap. I grip the handle tight, feeling the intricate designs in the hard metal press against my skin. It’s freezing and the lack of circulation in my arms hurts. But I can’t let go. I don’t trust myself.

“I’m going inside and I have nothing left to say,” I tell her and every word comes out with conviction.

“I’ll leave my card,” she says and slips it into one of the bags dangling from my arm.

I watch her walk away, not saying another word and biting back the comment on the tip of my tongue for her not to bother.

“Fucking bitch,” I spit out the second I open the door and then let the bags fall to the floor.

My body feels like ice and my arms and shoulders are killing me. My legs are weak as I lean against the door to shut it and stare absently ahead, my gaze drifting from the empty foyer to the stairs.

I want to cry.

I want to give up.

But mostly I wish I’d been a better wife. I wish I’d kept Evan from whatever the hell he did.

I know him. He’s not a murderer.