That one word came wrapped in shame, and that made me furious in a way I have learned to control very carefully. Shame has a smell when it enters a family. It smells like fear. Like control. Like someone else’s version of events being forced into your mouth until you start choking on it.
“Listen to me,” I said. “Are you alone?”
“His lawyer is here.”
That stopped me with one arm halfway into my sweater.
“His lawyer?”
“Yes.”
I had spent thirty-two years in courtrooms before retiring from the bench, and some details arrive with their own spotlight. A husband’s lawyer showing up in the middle of the night at a police station before the wife’s mother even gets there is one of them.
It meant this had not just happened.
It meant Adrian had prepared for it.
“Natalie,” I said, my voice flat now, “do not answer another question until I get there unless they ask for your name or medical information. Do you understand?”
“I already told them some things.”
“That’s all right. From now on, say as little as possible. Ask for water. Sit up straight. Breathe. I’m leaving now.”