“It’s evidence,” he said, his voice cool. “Leave it.”

Homicide inspector Nathan Jaglow, tall, probably in his fifties, with short, curly gray hair and a sad smile, was a very patient man. His partner, Inspector Janice Lee, was Asian American, pretty but painfully thin, with long, lustrous black hair. They took notes, asked questions and occasionally made me repeat myself, just so they could write my words down exactly as I’d stated them.

They’d commandeered another binder’s workroom and they sat across from me at a high worktable. I didn’t know whether they were both pretending to play good cop until someone else showed up to play bad cop, but I liked them. Unlike Derek Stone, they seemed to believe me when I insisted I hadn’t killed Abraham. However, that didn’t keep them from asking me to go over my story in minute detail several times.

Early on, a crime scene technician swabbed my hands in order to test the blood to see if it matched Abraham’s. I was allowed to wash my hands in the workroom sink, which made me feel somewhat better. I could now look at my hands without sliding to the floor.

Jaglow held up a large Ziploc baggie. Inside was a ten-inch knife with a wide, rounded blade. “Can you tell me what this is?”

The knife was smeared with blood.

And there went my stomach again.

“Deep breaths, Ms. Wainwright,” Inspector Lee said, her gravelly voice calm and strangely seductive. “I know it’s difficult but we really need your expertise right now. Take your time.”

I inhaled deeply, then exhaled, and repeated that several times, telling myself to relax.

“It’s called a-a Japanese paper knife,” I said, my voice sounding hoarse. “It’s made in Japan.” Duh, I thought. I took a sip of water and continued. “It’s used to cut paper.” Again, duh. I could no longer think straight.

“You’re doing great,” Inspector Jaglow said. “So this is a tool used for cutting paper. Paper used in making or repairing books, I presume.”