Page 65 of Made for You
“Realistic, I think.” I can hear the thinness in my own voice.
Mitchell finally breaks eye contact, and I sag.
“You got all that?” he says to Adams.
“Yes, sir.” Adams wraps up his note-taking with a flourish.
“Thank you for your time, Miz Walden.” Mitchell and Adams both scrape their chairs back and stand.
“Wait—the development. You said there was something new.”
“Oh...yes. The development.” Mitchell smiles. “Funny, what with you living on Royce’s old place...” He gestures to his elbow. “We found your husband’s severed arm.”
Blazing hot coffee is burning my hands before I even realize that it’s my own electrified shaking that’s spilling it. My fingers release on instinct. The mug shatters against the tile floor. Captain barks. Gripping the counter with one hand, I hold my other hand out toward my dog so he doesn’t try to cross the minefield the kitchen floor has become.
“Forensics has informed me that the arm was cut from a dead body, not a living one,” drawls Mitchell. “Funny how they can tell, isn’t it? Which brings me to this, Miz Walden. We no longer have a missing person case on our hands.” He calmly returns his hat to his head as if there’s not coffee and broken glass all over the floor. “This is a murder investigation. And if things go my way, next time I see you will be with a warrant for your arrest.”
“Sir,” rebukes Adams, his face reddening. “With all due respect, let’s not forget that Julia—I mean, Miz Walden—is presumed innocent until—”
“Proven guilty,” finishes the sheriff with a grin toward me. Adams tightens his lips and looks down like he’s ashamed.
“Why do you only seem to be coming after me?” I explode.
The sheriff walks out of the kitchen.
I follow, frantic. “Wait! I didn’t kill him. You have to believe me. There are so many other people that could have—My neighbor Bob! He hates us. This—this crazy lady, she attacked me in California during filming, and I just found out she lives here—Oh—Josh’s old girlfriend—she was a stalker! Everyone here hates us, it could have been anyone—I have bins of hate mail, maybe there could be a lead in there, a clue—” I know I sound like I’m trying to hide my guilt in this spastic avalanche of information, but I can’t let him walk away like this, without even giving me a chance. “Aren’t you going to write that down?” I look at Adams. We’ve reached the foyer. “I’m giving you leads! Please! You have to look into them!”
Adams reaches for his pen; Mitchell’s head twitches no. Then his expression goes funny. “Is that—” Mitchell looks down, turns in a slow circle. Bends, until he’s on all fours. He reaches under the entryway bench, behind the row of shoes and, after gesturing for Adams’s pen, pulls out...
A silver watch.
The sound is suddenly overwhelming. Tick-tick-tick.
“I thought I heard a ticking sound.” Mitchell straightens up, the watch dangling from the pen. “Still working. But cracked. This your husband’s?”
I nod mutely. Adams withdraws a clear baggie. I know what they’re thinking. Evidence. My heart is a monster trying to maul me from within.
“Does he normally wear it when he goes out?”
I nod again, like a marionette being yanked.
Mitchell steps close, the watch lifted between us, its metronome pounding. He lowers his voice. “Why is your husband’s broken watch under there, Julia?”
I look at the blue face, the silver slashes, the jolt of the hand marking the seconds. It’s going too fast, isn’t it, and it’s uneven, some seconds short, some long—
“Did you kill your husband? Did you take off his watch before severing his arm, or after? It was the left one, did I mention that? His watch arm—with the ring finger missing. Flung into the woods like someone tried to feed it to the animals...and, I should mention, an animal or two did find it, and the ants, dear Lord, it was like an oil spill, all those little black crawlers feasting, a real picnic...”
I can’t speak.
The sheriff steps back and tips his hat in a gentlemanly gesture. He doesn’t smile.
“No further questions.”
THEN
Palm trees rustle above us. The smells of LA combine, the sweetness of heliotrope with the pungency of urine. Beauty and grime. My sweaty hand shifts against Josh’s. We’re walking up Industry Drive toward the fifteen-story building that hosts WekTech’s LA offices. My stomach is gurgling, and I’m wishing I hadn’t had breakfast, since it seems likely to come right back up.
“This is us,” I say as we finally crest the hill, huffing and puffing from the climb. We could have been dropped off closer, but the producer wanted shots of us approaching the building. I wonder if they’ll play ominous music when it airs. I suppose that will depend on what happens today. It’s an eerie thought, imagining the film editors at work, like gods, knowing how it ends and retrofitting just the right clues to lead—or mislead—the viewers.