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So much talk of her being crazy and unhinged, a psycho, a whore.

All from people who likely followed her every move and post with bated breath until about eight hours ago.

All from women who probably bought her expensive baby carrier and matching apron sets.

Maybe the same people who posted all of the sycophantic comments on her last reel saying how much they loved her life and wanted to know her toenail color.

It all makes me hate humanity.

It’s twilight and the sky is that pretty swirl of colors I saw last night from my balcony while I was sitting with Bex.

My insides are as mixed up as the painting in the sky.

I’m ashamed for telling the police such personal things about Bex and confused about my strange role in all this.

If she did do it, if she murdered her husband, then was I brought out here as an alibi?

I pull over and answer the phone when Peter calls again.

“What the hell, Lizzie? Where have you been? What’s going on? Why didn’t you call me back? I’ve been worried sick.” My husband’s voice, even erratic like this, calms me slightly, and some of the tension melts out of my shoulders. He is real.

“The police station,” I say, like he should have known.

“Oh, honey. What happened? What do you need? How can I help?” I only just realize that I hadn’t texted him. I’d completely forgotten, or rather I had the thought to text him and then just didn’t do it, a thing that happens almost every day. I am constantly texting him only in my mind.

“Where should I start?” The tears come, fat and salty.

I miss Peter. I miss life the way it was twenty-four hours ago.

I want him here now to hold me and then drive back to the hotel and get me safely into bed.

Nothing here feels safe. I spent last night with a potential murderer and I had no idea.

I shouldn’t be so surprised by this sudden wave of emotions.

I’m gutted. I was used as a pawn by someone I didn’t think had the ability to hurt me anymore.

I fill Peter in as best I can through my sobs.

“Do you think she did it?” My rational and highly analytical reporter husband will always get straight to the point. No bullshit.

“Yes.” I choke back another cry. “No. I have no idea. She was unhappy. I can tell you that. Deeply, deeply unhappy despite what she’s posted on social media all these years. It sounds like Grayson was awful to her. It was all a lie.”

“You need to come home.”

“The officers asked me to stay in case they had more questions.”

“I don’t think they can make you do that. Do you need a lawyer?”

“No. Why would I?”

“I actually have no idea. I’ve never gone through something like this.”

“Me neither. But no. I don’t think I do. I told the police the truth. This isn’t about me. I barely knew her.” That is the truth. I knew Bex. I barely knew Rebecca Sommers. In fact, I didn’t know her at all.

“I know. I know. Okay. Do you want me to fly out there?”

Yes. I want that desperately, but I’m also a grown woman who can take care of herself, and right now our kids need him more than I do.

“No. I can do this on my own. I’ll talk to them again tomorrow if I have to and then rest up and come back.”

“Do you think Alana will be okay with that?”

Alana is my boss, my editor. Ten years my junior and a rising star in tech, she took over Modern Woman when the venture money poured in to save it.

“Alana? Why would she care if I stay here or not?”

“Shit, Liz. Modern Woman is all over this story. Have you not talked to Alana yet?”

“No, I called you first. What do you mean?”

“When I read about what happened and I couldn’t get in touch with you I went to the Modern Woman website, and they have a picture from Rebecca’s Instagram on their homepage. It’s of her feet. So strange. But the caption announces their editor is on the ground and covering this breaking story.”

“No. No.” I shake my head. And then I look at my stream of text messages from Alana and from David, our photo editor, sent hours ago. They’re desperate for information.

“I can’t.”

“Tell them that.”

“I don’t think I can do that either. My job is hanging on by a thread.” I haven’t said this out loud before. “All of our jobs are. The magazine is.”

“It’s late here. You don’t need to call her back right away.” But I know I do. Alana doesn’t sleep. She’s a machine and she’s singularly focused on the traffic we so desperately need to stay afloat. “Fuck,” I whisper.

“Don’t call her. Get some sleep.”

“Okay,” I say, though I know I’ll call. I’m a good soldier. But not until I get back to my room, not until I take a shower and scrub my body raw with the fancy hotel soap to get rid of the smell of police station—a mix of stale coffee, cigarette smoke, and recycled air.

“I love you, darling. And I’ll get on a flight within the hour if you need me.”

We can’t afford that, but I like that he pretends we can. “I know you will. And I love you too,” I say, grateful for this man who has never once told me I couldn’t do something or pressured me to be anything other than myself. I’m lucky. I know that.

There are several shiny black town cars in front of the hotel with black-clad security guards at the ready waiting outside them, as well as a number of television news vans with satellites on the tops of them.

A scrum of reporters is roped off about twenty feet from the main entrance, a pen of wolves.

I know those pens well. I’ve spent days inside of them.

I have to hand it to this hotel and probably the conference.

They’ve mobilized quickly to lock this place down and keep the reporters on the outside.

Which means I might be the only press on the inside.

I try to ignore that familiar tingle of excitement at being the first to crack a story because this time I’m part of the story.

It’s a feeling that I’ve missed desperately without even knowing it.

I can’t put on my sunglasses as a disguise since it’s so dark, but I’ve got the tattered Phillies hat I wore on the plane ride out here to cover my greasy head and I can pull the brim low over my face.

I’m still wearing the ridiculous dress I put on this morning, and the lace has given me a rash on my neck and wrists.

The journalists bombard me with questions as I approach the property.

“Were you at MomBomb? Do you know Rebecca Sommers?” I am certain that all these people know Lizzie Matthews was with Rebecca last night since Bex tagged me in that last Instagram post, but I don’t think they know it’s me right now.

I’m mostly a ghost online. I don’t have a bunch of pictures of myself on Instagram.

My headshot on the magazine’s website is probably five years old.

I keep moving as quickly as I can. The lobby is more of a safe space, at least from the press.

But plenty of women from the conference are still here.

They probably flew in from all over the country and aren’t scheduled to fly home for days.

Perhaps, like me, they long to be safe from the questions of the outside world, or more likely, they’re seduced by the proximity to drama.

“It’s her,” I hear one of them whisper loudly, but I don’t break my stride as I shuffle toward the elevators.

Once inside I realize I need the room key to get up to my floor.

I rustle around in my purse, but it’s not in there.

Shit. It must have fallen out in the car when I grabbed my phone.

I’ll have to go back out and get one from the front desk.

My hunched shoulders and quick shuffle clearly convey I don’t want to talk to anyone and thankfully everyone keeps their distance.

When I get to the front desk, I request a new key and the clerk behind the counter types something into the computer and then takes a beat to read whatever is written there.

Maybe they want me out of here. Maybe they don’t want such a close witness in this case in their hotel.

Or who knows, maybe they want the attention. All press can be good press.

I look up and the expression on the woman’s face is nothing but kind and accommodating and I hate that I now suspect everyone of something nefarious.

“Here’s your key, Ms. Matthews.” She slides the glossy black card my way. “And according to our system it looks like we have a message for you.”

“Oh?” I’m genuinely surprised.

“Hold on one second. I’ll run into the office and grab it.”

My breath hitches with anticipation, though I know it’s probably from Alana.

When I didn’t respond to emails, calls, or texts, she got old-fashioned and likely faxed over a list of questions she wants me to answer ASAP.

If I don’t call soon, she’ll be on the next plane here and then I’ll really be in a dumpster fire.

The clerk returns with a small envelope, the paper the palest shade of pink possible. The stationery is expensive and heavy in my hands. “Thank you,” I say, knowing I’m being watched by everyone in the room.

I make it to the elevator and use my new card to get to my floor. I somehow manage to make it all the way into my suite before I rip open the envelope and yank out the note card inside.

The paper is the same color and weight as the envelope. It smells vaguely of lemons and basil. There are only two lines written on it, but I read them over and over again until the words blur.

I didn’t do it. You have to believe me.