About an hour later, I found Andrew pacing outside Hannah's building, his coat whipping in the November wind. But it wasn't his agitation that stopped me cold.
Three police cruisers blocked the street. Yellow tape sectioned off the building's entrance. Officers moved with the particular urgency that meant something irreversible had happened.
"They won't let anyone in," Andrew said as I approached. "Won't say what happened."
"Hannah's been depressed." The words emerged carefully measured. "I've been worried about her state of mind lately. If she's done something to herself—"
"Don't." Andrew's hand found mine, squeezing hard. "Don't even think that."
We approached the tape barrier where a young officer stood guard, his face professionally blank.
"We're friends of Hannah Rogers," Andrew began. "She lives here. We're concerned—"
"You'll have to check the news," the officer interrupted, not unkindly. "It's already public. There's been a homicide."
The word landed like a physical blow. Andrew's face got drained of color. "Hannah? Is Hannah—"
"Check the news," the officer repeated, turning away.
My phone was already in my hand, fingers flying across the screen. The headline blazed across every major outlet:
Hannah Rogers Stabs With a Knife Journalist Olivia Campbell
"No." Andrew grabbed my phone, staring at the screen as if the words might rearrange themselves. "This is wrong. This has to be wrong."
Shocked, he gave me back my phone.
I scrolled down, speed-reading the details. Hannah's apartment. Late Sunday night. Olivia was found this morning by a neighbor who heard screaming in the night. Hannah is already in custody.
"She wouldn't." Andrew's voice cracked. "Hannah wouldn't hurt anyone. She's not capable of—"
"We need our lawyer." I pulled him away from the growing crowd of onlookers. "Now."
"Why? We didn't do anything."
"Get in the car, Andrew. I'll explain at Martin's office."
"Explain what? What the fuck is happening?"
"Not here." I guided him toward my car, noting the news vans already arriving. "We can't have this conversation on the street."
The drive to Martin Crest's office passed in suffocating silence. Andrew stared out the window, his reflection a ghost in the glass. I navigated traffic while my mind raced through contingencies, calculating damage control.
Martin met us in his conference room, his expression grave behind wire-rimmed glasses. "I've been monitoring the situation since the story broke an hour ago."
"Someone explain to me what's happening," Andrew demanded, his composure finally cracking. "Why are we here? Why would Hannah—"
"There are things you don't know." I sat across from him, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "About our arrangement with Hannah."
"What things?"
Martin slid a folder across the table. "Perhaps it's better if you see the documentation."
Andrew opened it slowly. I watched his face change as he absorbed the information—copies of checks, bank transfers, a running tally of Hannah's debts.
"Fifty thousand dollars?" His voice came out strangled. "You paid her fifty thousand dollars?"
"Her debts were destroying her. She came to me desperate—"
"You bought her." The accusation hung between us like a blade. "You literally bought her participation in our—"
He stopped, unable to finish.
"There's more," Martin interrupted, lawyer's instincts keeping us focused. "Ms. Blake, tell him about Olivia Campbell."
"She approached me at your exhibition opening." Each word felt like pulling teeth. "Asked pointed questions about our relationship, about you and Hannah. Hannah later told me Olivia had compromising material on all of us."
"And you didn't think to mention this?" Andrew's hands clenched on the table's edge.
"I was handling it."
"Handling it how?"
"I told Hannah to manage her friend. To make sure no story ran."
Understanding dawned on Andrew's face, horrible and complete. "And instead she killed her."
"We don't know the specifics—"
"She killed her, Angie! With a knife!" He shot to his feet, pacing to the window. "Christ, we were fucking her while she was planning murder."
"If I may," Martin interjected, his calm professionalism a counterpoint to our unraveling. "You'll both certainly be called as witnesses. The police will discover your connection to Ms. Rogers quickly. We need to prepare your statements."
"Statements about what?" Andrew turned from the window. "That we were in a throuple with a killer?"
"That you were acquaintances who occasionally socialized," Martin corrected. "Nothing more specific unless directly asked under oath."
"There's another concern," I said, voicing what we were all thinking. "From jail, Hannah might talk. About everything."
Martin nodded. "I suggest offering her substantial funds for legal counsel. The best defense attorney money can buy. Contingent, of course, on a comprehensive non-disclosure agreement."
"You want to pay her more money?" Andrew's laugh came out bitter. "Pay her to keep quiet about how we drove her to murder?"
"We didn't drive her anywhere," I snapped. "She made her own choice."
"Did she? Or did we push her until she snapped?"
Martin cleared his throat. "I'll draft the necessary documents. For now, go home. Don't speak to the media. Don't post anything online. If the police contact you, call me immediately."
Andrew was already at the door. I scrambled after him, catching up in the parking garage.
"Andrew, stop—we need to talk!"
He stopped so abruptly I collided with his back. When he turned, his face was transformed with rage.
"How could you let someone like that into our lives?" His voice echoed off concrete walls. "Someone desperate enough to kill?"
"You're joking." The accusation stunned me. "You brought her into our lives. You were ready to leave me for her, move in with her just to spite me."
He inhaled sharply, then exhaled, his shoulders dropping.
"You're right. I started this. But what upsets me more is that you kept so much from me. The money, Olivia, Hannah's mental state—I might be blind sometimes, Angie, but I count on you to see what I miss."
The weight of his disappointment hit harder than anger would have. He finally understood the cost of everything—the affairs, the games, the careful destruction we'd orchestrated. And I took grim satisfaction in his remorse. He deserved to feel the weight of what we'd built and broken.
"No more secrets," I said.
"None." The word came out exhausted but firm.
Then he pulled me against him, his arms closing around me with desperate strength. I felt him shake—with rage, remorse, or relief, I couldn't tell. Maybe all three.
We stood in that concrete cave, holding each other while somewhere across the city Hannah sat in a cell, Olivia lay in a morgue, and the careful architecture of our lies threatened to collapse.
But we were still standing. Still together.
For now, that was enough.