She sat down on the edge of the bed. Suddenly she laughed.
I came over and sat down beside her. She reached over and took one of my hands. “Donald, please don’t be angry,” she said. “It wasn’t the way you’re thinking it was.”
I didn’t say anything.
She crossed her knees. The robe slid away from the smooth flesh. She made no effort to pull it back, but sat there kicking her foot back and forth, a few inches at a time, nervous, seductive, trying to think, the robe sliding provocatively each time she kicked.
I said, “The truth will be a lot better for you right now than any lie you can think up. You have just one stab at rehearsal and then you’re going to be talking to the police.”
“Not to the police, Donald.”
“To the police,” I said.
“But what have I done, for the police to bother me?”
“Murder, for one thing.”
“Murder?” she exclaimed, and then suddenly put her hand over her lips, as though to push the word back in when she realized how loud her exclamation had been.