The Woman with the Scar (Costa Family)

“I’m the one who called you,” Judy said, getting to her feet, not even trying to pull me with her. It would have been useless if she had. My legs weren’t going to cooperate with the idea of holding up my weight. “This is Mrs. Polat,” she added, gesturing down to me. “She found the… you know,” Judy said carefully. “I think she’s in shock,” she added.

In shock.

That seemed to sum up how I was feeling.

In shock.

It wasn’t so much a feeling, but a destination, a place I felt firmly rooted in, the soil packed tight, refusing to loosen its grip on me.

I was aware of the police going into my apartment, of voices, then more feet coming down the hall.

That was all they were to me right then. Feet.

Two sets of cheap leather shoes that something in my brain labeled as belonging to detectives. Then another set of nicer black shoes. Maybe the medical examiner.

After he moved in, the uniformed police moved closer to the doorway, their voices clear.

“The doc said they were removed when he was alive,” one of them said.

“Oh, God,” I groaned, curling forward over my knees as another wave of nausea came over me.

“What is wrong with you two?” Judy hissed, squatting down beside me, her hand running up and down my back. “It’s okay. Just don’t listen. You don’t need to hear any of this right now,” she assured me.

“Mrs. Polat,” another voice said, deeper, more authoritative. A detective.

“What? No. Not me,” Judy said.

“Oh, sorry, ma’am. I thought…” the detective trailed off.

I knew what he thought.

That Judy was much closer to Eren’s age. That Eren and I made no sense.

I couldn’t blame him.

We didn’t.

But I couldn’t tell him the truth.

I never told anyone the truth.

“This is Ezmerey Polat,” Judy said. “I’m just the neighbor. Judy Trent-Wood.”

“Mrs—“

“Ms,” Judy corrected.

“Ms. Trent-Wood. I’m detective Newsom. Can you tell us what happened here?”

“I was in my apartment and someone started slamming on my door. Then I heard Ezmerey shrieking for help, begging me to open the door. I thought—“ she trailed off, second-guessing what she was about to say.

She thought I had finally had enough of Eren’s abuse and was asking for her help.

Because that truth made it sound like I had a motive to kill my husband.

“You thought?” the detective prompted.

“I thought she sounded absolutely frantic,” Judy recovered. “I opened the door and she all but fell into me. She has been like this ever since. I can’t imagine the shock,” she added, voice grave. “I’m not surprised she got sick. I almost got sick myself,” Judy said, and I knew that was a lie. She’d been as calm as could be.

“We are going to need to talk to Mrs. Polat,” the detective said.

“Maybe if I get her in my apartment,” Judy suggested. “Maybe the change of atmosphere might help. It can’t be good that she keeps hearing what everyone is saying,” she added, and I didn’t look up, but I swear she must have shot a hard look in the uniformed police officers’ direction.

“Sure. I will check in with her in a couple minutes,” the detective agreed, walking away.

“Listen to me. We need to get up,” Judy said, tone brooking no argument. As soon as she was done speaking, her hands went up under my armpits and helped yank me to my feet. With her arm around my waist, she led me across the hall and into her apartment.

I’d never been inside.

It was identical to Eren’s apartment in the layout. And Judy seemed to have a similar minimalist style that Eren had gone for, but she’d pulled it off with much more class. It wasn’t stark and cold with too much brass, gold, and black. She’d chosen warmer earth tones instead. The overall effect was calming.

I wasn’t sure if it was the apartment or the movement, but I could feel the strange fog starting to fall back as Judy led me to her kitchen island, urging me into a stool, then moving into the kitchen to put a pod in her coffee machine.

“Okay. I get it. This is crazy. But you need to snap out of this right now,” she told me, making my curious gaze follow her as she put cream and sugar in the mug just before it started to drip. “I haven’t said anything, but I know this is not your average murder. That your husband was in some shady business.”

“I…” I started, shaking my head, not sure what I was going to say.

“But you need to understand,” she went on like I hadn’t attempted to speak, mixing the coffee, then setting it before me. “When a spouse is murdered, the living spouse is always the prime suspect. And it is going to come out that he’s been abusing you. Which is only going to give the cops more motivation to pin this on you. So you need to shake off that shock, pull up your big girl panties, and get control of this.”