“Ms. Lawrence, turn around. Arms behind your back.” He slapped a pair of cold silver handcuffs on my wrists, the towel falling to the ground between us.
“Wait. I’m getting arrested? For what?” I tried to look up over my shoulder at the agent, but was thrust back around and forced up against the wall, the cuffs tightening with the movement. My cheek smushed into the cool plaster, the paint color—Anvil Gray—hitting me with a force almost as heavy as its name.
“Assaulting an officer.” The agent’s voice remained even and unfeeling.
“I didn’t assault you! I waved a towel in your face,” I cried. This can’t be happening! He must be joking! A crushing swell of nausea rocketed through me, and I scanned the foyer for something I could use in case I got sick.
“Ma’am, please don’t make me add resisting arrest to your charges. Agent McInerny, please read Ms. Lawrence her rights,” the agent ordered.
A young female officer with slicked-back hair and deep-set blue eyes stepped forward to recite my Miranda rights. It was simultaneously exactly how I’d seen it in the movies and the thousand Law & Order: SVU marathons I’d logged, and yet, not at all the same. The procedures seemed familiar, but this experience was wholly new and altogether more unsettling than I could have ever imagined.
I swallowed hard, trying to unjumble my thoughts and questions, but in the end, I was so afraid of saying the wrong thing that I said nothing. I prayed that somehow between getting manhandled and Mirandized, Adam would look at me. I just needed to see his eyes, his innocent face, a reassuring glance—something—to give me a clue as to what the hell was happening and that this had been a colossal mistake.
Throughout the apartment, cabinets were being slammed and drawers emptied, flipped upside down carelessly, items tossed about like junk. The SWAT team was searching every last nook and cranny, rummaging through dressers, pulling down books, files, and prized sports mementos. When they dumped over a box tucked deep in the back of the closet containing some of my old acting memorabilia—tattered scripts, cast photos, trophies from singing competitions—a tight pull in my stomach caught me off guard.
Sprawled out on the floor among the autographed Playbills and ticket stubs was the version of my life I’d given up when I’d chosen Adam six years ago and set aside my dream of an acting career for an entirely different kind of happiness. I’d forgotten that box was even back there. In this mess, it was hard to tell what they were looking for. It would take days to put things back together again.
A young agent I hadn’t seen before poked his head into the foyer. “Ms. Lawrence, where’s your phone?”
“My phone? It’s charging next to my bed. Why?”
“Tony, it’s by the bed. Bag it up,” he called out to a fellow officer.
I looked up at the female agent. “No, wait! They’re taking my phone? No, please! My entire proposal’s on that phone, my entire life!”
“Once forensics takes a look, you’ll get it back. But that could take weeks, possibly even months, if ever,” she deadpanned.
After what felt like hours, the lead agent announced they were finished with their search and ready to leave. The female officer tapped me hard on the shoulder and spun me around. “Let’s go,” she said without the slightest trace of sympathy in her voice.
“My . . . my coat?” I managed to squeak out.
The officer rolled her eyes and snagged the coat that hung on the closest hook, unfazed by whether it was even mine or Adam’s. She half-heartedly draped it over my shoulders, not bothering to undo the handcuffs to allow my arms to slide in properly, and gave me a little shove out the door.
I followed her into the hallway just as one of our neighbors, Mrs. Randall, stepped out of her apartment clutching her bratwurst-shaped corgi, Queen Elizabeth. Wonderful. During our co-op board interview, Mrs. Randall had made no secret of the fact she thought Adam and I were too young and our money too new for the prestigious apartment building. She’d grilled us on everything from our W-2s to our hobbies, trying to find any reason to deny us entry. In the end, Adam won over the rest of the board, and despite her “no” vote, our application went through.
I could only imagine what she was thinking as she watched us both get hauled out of here in handcuffs. Was she horrified? Vindicated? At this point, how Mrs. Randall felt about me was probably the least of my worries. I closed my eyes, silently counting the number of chimes until the elevator arrived on our floor, but opened them when I felt a small, tubby body brush up against my leg. Queen Elizabeth had jumped out of Mrs. Randall’s arms and was now curled up at my feet.
A few weeks ago, Queen Elizabeth somehow escaped from Mrs. Randall’s apartment. I found her alone in the hallway, scared and cowering in a corner. I took her in and gave her water and food and let her sleep in my lap all afternoon, returning her when Mrs. Randall finally came home. It seemed Queen Elizabeth hadn’t forgotten about my kind gesture, even if Mrs. Randall had.
One . . . two . . . three . . . and then finally, after what felt like an eternity, the elevator arrived at the ninth floor. The doors parted, and Queen Elizabeth reluctantly slid off my shoes and returned to her owner. The female agent and I stepped inside and went down to the lobby, where another dozen detectives and officers were milling about.
Seeing the sheer size of the police presence, I knew this had to be a mistake, all a big mistake. I mean, what do they think Adam is guilty of ? Masterminding a presidential assassination or something? They must have confused him with someone else. That was it. A simple mix-up. Once we got to the police station, they’d realize their error, and we’d be home sitting in front of the Christmas tree unwrapping gifts and sipping on eggnog in no time.
Moments later, the stout agent led Adam out of the second elevator bank. I searched his face for the same wild panic I was experiencing at the sheer absurdity of what was happening around us. But instead, he looked extraordinarily composed, calm, almost resigned . . .
My heart sank lower than I’d ever thought possible, practically to my knees, as an overwhelming sense of dread refilled the now empty space. Oh my God, maybe this wasn’t a mistake after all?!
“Adam! Adam! Please, just tell me what’s happening? Please, baby, just look at me.”
He kept his back turned, shook his head—his hair still dripping—and walked toward the sidewalk, a flicker of light winking off the handcuffs clasped behind him as he slid into the back seat of an unmarked police car without even a glance in my direction.
Chapter Four