Page 93 of The New Couple in 5B

But of course, I did research it. I probably know more about that crime than any other person except the cop who investigated Bethany’s murder. The one who still believes Chad did it and that the wrong person is in prison. I wanted to write about it. But Chad was dead against it. “Please, let’s not unearth the past. You never know what comes crawling out of the dirt.”

Now, in our new apartment, the past has unearthed itself despite our best efforts. Olivia has placed herself between Chad and Detective Crowe. “My client was exonerated. Found innocent. And another man confessed and is in prison as we speak.”

Detective Crowe bobbles his head side to side; it’s kind of an obnoxious gesture, smart, know-it-all. “And yet, there are plenty of people who believe Mr. Lowan was guilty of that murder.”

“Plenty of people believe there’s a Santa Claus,” says Olivia. “That doesn’t make it true.”

“Including the investigating detective,” Crowe goes on, ignoring her quip. “There are allegations that someone, hired by Mr. Lowan’s lawyer, coerced a confession out of Bethany Wright’s mentally challenged brother.”

Chad has gone sickly pale, and I grab on to him.

“Rumor, conjecture,” says Olivia. “My client was innocent and found so by a jury.”

“A murdered girlfriend. Parents killed in a suspicious car accident. Allegations of manipulating a dying man into willing his apartment. A cousin who hangs herself after blackmailing him. Now a neighbor falls to his death. That’s quite a catalog.”

We all stay silent. Chad’s face is weirdly blank—not angry, not sad, not terrified. I, on the other hand, am all those things.

“That’s a lot for one lifetime,” says Crowe. “Let alone the span of ten years.”

He’s right. So much darkness, its tendrils snaking around his life, ours.

“Exactly,” says Olivia, unfazed. “My clients have endured enough grief. Don’t contact us again without a warrant.”

Detective Crowe casts one more worried frown in my direction and then leaves, door slamming behind him. Chad sinks into the couch, and Olivia and I regard each other grimly. The city noise wafts up, the familiar and weirdly comforting cacophony of horns, construction, shouts.

“I can’t—I can’t go through something like this again,” he says. I drop next to him, wrap my arms around him and he leans heavily into me, dumps his head in his hands.

“Nothinglike that is going to happen,” says Olivia, emphatic. She has her hands on her hips, Wonder Woman. “They have nothing on you, or they would have already arrested you.”

Chad groans. “If they want to find something, they will. That’s how they operate. They develop a theory and then try to prove it right. That’s what they did when Bethany died. Nothing could have convinced them that I was innocent.”

He’s right. I’ve seen it myself in my research for my last book. The police constructed a narrative, nabbing the wrong man, and even evidence that would have pointed them toward Matthew Pantel, evidence that later proved him guilty, was ignored.

“That isnothow it’s going to go,” Olivia says. “Not on my watch.”

Olivia stands before us, looking powerful, certain of her position. I’ve always envied her confidence, the sureness of her voice and actions.

“I’ve got this,” she says, gathering up her things. “Do not speak to him again. Not if he comes here, not if he stops you on the street. Not even if he arrests you—which he won’t.”

I release Chad, and he rises to embrace Olivia, thanking her for being here. When he looks back at me, the despair I saw earlier seems to be gone, as if she’s transferred some of her confidence to him.

I, on the other hand, am still shaken to the core.

“Just—go about your lives as normal,” says Olivia in the hallway by the service elevator. “I’ll handle Detective Crowe. He has no evidence, just suspicions. So just keep your heads down, work, live and stay out of trouble.”

Stay out of trouble? Easy enough when trouble doesn’t seem to be waiting around every corner.

Back in the apartment, I pad into the dim bedroom and climb between the covers again, the world too heavy, my sadness too total. I think about those antidepressants and wonder if I need to take them. I can already feel it tugging at me, that undertow of darkness. It swallows all your ambition, joy, power. I can’t slip down into that pool again.

It’s the building, something whispers.The pain, sorrow, fear, murder, death trapped within its walls is like a poison, like arsenic in Victorian wallpaper, making everyone sick.

No. Stop that.

Chad follows me into the room, lies beside me and wraps me up in his arms from behind.

“Olivia said to go about as normal,” he says softly.

“I’ll try.”