He wrote it down. Then he looked at her. She was still staring straight down at her lap. Not at him. “Okay, Miss Cormier,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”

SHE WANTED TO GO HOME. She had been sitting in this patrol car for an hour and a half now, had talked to three different cops, had answered all their questions. Her wedding was a shambles, she’d barely escaped with her life, and those people out there on the street kept staring at her as though she were some sort of sideshow freak.

And this man, this cop with all the warmth of a codfish, expected her to go through it again?

“Miss Cormier,” he sighed. “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can leave. What, exactly, happened?”

“It blew up,” she said. “Can I go home?”

“What do you mean by blew up?”

“There was a loud boom. Lots of smoke and broken windows. I’d say it was your typical exploding building.”

“You mentioned smoke. What color was the smoke?”

“What?”

“Was it black? White?”

“Does it matter?”

“Just answer the question, please.”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “It was white, I think.”

“You think?”

“All right. I’m sure.” She turned to look at him. For the first time she really focused on his face. If he’d been smiling, if there’d been even a trace of warmth, it would have been a pleasant enough face to look at. He was in his late thirties. He had dark brown hair that was about two weeks overdue for a trim. His face was thin, his teeth were perfect, and his deep set green eyes had the penetrating gaze one expected of a romantic lead movie cop. Only this was no movie cop. This was an honest-to-goodness cop with a badge, and he wasn’t in the least bit charming. He was studying her with a completely detached air, as though sizing up her reliability as a witness.

She gazed back at him, thinking, Here I am, the rejected bride. He’s probably wondering what’s wrong with me. What terrible flaws I possess that led to my being stood up at the altar.