Sorry if I've worried you. I can be reached at the number below. Call me as soon as you can. I love you.

I stare at the number, the area code 201 striking me.

She's in New Jersey?

I reread the words a few times, going over the numbers in my mind. I push my confusion aside, grateful to have something. I don't have any answers, but at least she's okay. She's out there, and I have a way to reach her.

I fold the letter up and stick it back in the envelope, shoving it in my pocket. I make the trip back to Brooklyn and am approaching the front door of the house when someone speaks. "Karissa Reed?"

I stall and turn around, eyes widening at the sound of my name on this stranger's lips. He's nobody I've ever seen before, an older man with graying hair, wearing an ill-fitting blue suit. Another younger man lingers on the sidewalk, trying to act casual, his hands on his hips, pushing his coat out of the way and exposing a shiny gold badge clipped to his belt.

Police.

"Uh, yes," I say hesitantly, staring at the badge for a moment before turning to the one who addressed me. "Can I help you?"

"We're hoping so," he says. "We wanted to ask you a few questions."

"About?"

"About Daniel Santino."

My brow furrows. Professor Santino? "What about him?"

"Would you mind coming down to the station with us?" he asks, smiling tersely. It doesn't escape my notice that he avoids answering my question. "It'll only take a few minutes."

I glance between the two men and the car parked near them—clearly an unmarked police cruiser. "I don't know."

The second officer struts toward me, his expression hard. I watch enough mindless television to know the good cop/bad cop act, and this one obviously is the latter. "You can come with us now voluntarily or we can pick you up later and take you downtown, whether you like it or not."

Frowning, I oblige, climbing into the backseat when the older officer opens the door for me. He's kinder, trying to be friendly and chatting as he drives toward the police station. Detective Jameson with the Homicide Unit.

His partner, Detective Andrews, is clearly naturally an asshole. He sits in the passenger seat, silent, scowling.

When we arrive, I'm taken to a small drab room with nothing but a table and some chairs, the walls slate gray, a sign on the door that says 'Interrogation'. I nervously sit down in a chair with the men across from me. They offer me something to drink, but I'm too anxious to accept it.

Their questions seem simple on the surface: When's the last time you spoke to Daniel Santino? What did you talk about? Why were you there? They ask me again and again, the same tedious questions in a loop just worded a little differently each time, as if they expect to trip me up and get another response eventually.

I was the last person seen with him.

His estimated time of death coincided with my visit.

"Wait, you don't think… I mean, you seriously don't think I had something to do with this, right?"

Both men just stare at me.

"He was alive when I left him," I say, in utter shock that they're insinuating I could be involved. "I would never hurt someone, much less kill them. I wouldn't... I couldn't. Check the security cameras. You'll see!"

"The cameras in that building weren't recording," Detective Andrews says. "They recycle on a 24 hour loop. By the time he was discovered, the footage was erased."

"Well, I swear he was alive. He was! I would never do something like that. I'm not that kind of person!"

"I believe you," Detective Jameson says. "We're just trying to lock down a timeline of that afternoon."

He sounds genuine, but his words are at odds with Detective Andrews's attitude. He's treating me like a flat out criminal. His expression is hardened, his voice icy when he chimes in. "How long have you been involved with Ignazio Vitale?"

Naz's name catches me off guard. "Excuse me?"

"Ignazio Vitale," he says. "How long have the two of you—?"

"I don't see how that's any of your business," I say, slipping my hands from the table onto my lap when the man's attention shifts to the ring on my finger.

"You're aware of his reputation, I presume? It's not a far stretch to think—"

"Naz is a good man," I say defensively, cutting him off. "He has nothing to do with any of this."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Of course," I say. "I don't care what reputation you think he has. He's done nothing wrong, and neither have I… I didn't do anything. I just went to talk to him about my grade, and then I left, and he was still alive."

"And where was Ignazio at that time?"

My brow furrows. Before I can respond, the door to the interrogation room opens, another man poking his head in. Clearly their superior, based upon the way both men straighten their backs, giving him their undivided attention. He struts in, eyes skimming me, as he shakes his head. "You're free to go, Miss Reed."

Detective Andrews shakes his head in disagreement. "We still have a few more questions."

"Tough," the man says. "She's lawyered up."

My eyes widen. I did what?

Detective Andrews is just as surprised, turning to me. "I didn't hear you ask for a lawyer."

I didn't know I needed one.