The police station reeked of burnt coffee and desperation. Andrew and I sat in separate interrogation rooms, delivering our rehearsed statements with the precision of actors who'd memorized their lines.
"Ms. Rogers was a coordinator for my husband's exhibition," I told Detective Walsh, a woman with tired eyes and nicotine-stained fingers. "We socialized occasionally. Nothing more."
"And her relationship with Mr. Williams?"
"Professional. She had an eye for placement, lighting. Andrew trusted her judgment."
Walsh's pen scratched across paper. "When did you last see her?"
"The exhibition opening. Two weeks ago." The lie rolled off my tongue smooth as aged whiskey.
"Any indication she was troubled? Violent?"
"She seemed stressed about work. Nothing that suggested—" I gestured vaguely at the crime scene photos spread between us. "This."
They released us after four hours. Andrew waited in the lobby, his face carved from stone.
"How'd it go?" I asked.
"Fine. Stuck to Martin's script." He stood, moving toward the exit with mechanical precision. "Let's get out of here."
* * *
The case barely made a ripple. Neither Hannah nor Olivia commanded enough fame to sustain media attention.
A few tabloids tried connecting Hannah to Andrew's exhibition—"Gallery Coordinator Turned Killer!"—but the story died within days. New scandals emerged, fresher blood for the masses to feast on.
Three weeks passed in careful normalcy. Andrew painted with renewed intensity, as if he could exorcise Hannah's ghost through brushstrokes. I buried myself in acquisitions, hostile takeovers providing cleaner violence than what we'd left behind.
Friday afternoon found me in his studio, laptop balanced on my knees while Andrew attacked a canvas with prussian blue. The painting emerging looked like drowning—or baptism. Hard to tell which.
"We need to visit her."
His brush froze mid-stroke. Paint dripped onto the floor, a small blue sacrifice. "What?"
"Hannah. Before the trial." I kept my eyes on quarterly projections, voice casual as discussing lunch plans. "We should see her."
"Why the fuck would we do that?"
"Because we were close once. All three of us." I finally looked up, meeting his incredulous stare. "Adults should know how to end things properly. With closure."
"Closure?" He set down the brush with exaggerated care. "She murdered someone, Angie. With a knife. There's your fucking closure."
"She did it because of us."
"She did it because she's insane."
"Maybe." I closed the laptop, stood, moved toward him with deliberate grace. "But we owe her a goodbye."
"We owe her nothing."
My hands found his shoulders, fingers working the tension from muscles locked tight as piano wire. "One visit. Thirty minutes. Then we never have to think about her again."
"No."
I leaned closer, lips brushing his ear. "Please? For me?"
"Don't." But his resistance was already weakening, body betraying him as always.
"I need this, Andrew." My teeth grazed his neck, feeling his pulse accelerate. "Need to look her in the eyes and know it's over."
"Christ." He turned, catching my mouth with his, the kiss tasting of capitulation. "Fine. One visit. But if she starts talking about—about what we did—"
"She won't. The NDA ensures that."
"The NDA." His laugh came out bitter. "Right. Because paperwork fixes everything."
* * *
The prison visitation room looked exactly like television had taught me to expect—fluorescent lights, scratched plexiglass, the mingled scent of disinfectant and despair. Families clustered at metal tables, children clinging to mothers who'd soon disappear behind steel doors again.
"This is fucking depressing," Andrew muttered, his leg bouncing with nervous energy.
"There." I nodded toward the door where inmates entered.
Hannah emerged like a ghost of herself. Twenty pounds lighter, face stripped of makeup, orange scrubs hanging loose on her frame. She moved with the careful precision of someone who'd learned not to draw attention.
She sat across from us, hands folded, expression flat as untouched canvas.
Silence stretched between us.
"I signed the NDA and took the money." Hannah's voice came out rust-rough from disuse. "What are you doing here?"
I noticed Andrew wasn't looking at her—his gaze fixed on the wall behind her head. But Hannah wasn't looking at him either. Her eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
"We're sorry it ended like this," I said.
Hannah's laugh exploded from her throat—harsh, discordant, nothing like the musical giggle she'd perfected before. It sounded like breaking glass, like someone had reached inside her and twisted something essential until it snapped.
Andrew's head jerked up, disgust contorting his features. He leaned toward me, voice urgent. "I'll wait in the car."
"Andrew—"
But he was already standing, already moving, fleeing that terrible sound like it might infect him.
Hannah watched him go, something like satisfaction flickering across her face.
"He never could handle ugly truths," she said once the door closed behind him. "Want to know something funny? I never loved him. Not for a second."
"I know."
"I wanted his money. His gallery connections. The lifestyle." She leaned back, studying me. "I played the role perfectly—the wounded friend, the passionate mistress, the willing third. Oscar-worthy performance."
"It was." I believed her—mostly. But I also recognized the armor she was building, the story she'd tell herself to survive this place. "You were very convincing."
"Not convincing enough, apparently." Her fingers traced patterns on the metal table. "You won, Angie. Completely. You have Andrew, your marriage, your perfect life. And I have—" She gestured at the concrete walls, the barred windows. "This."
"I loved you once." The admission surprised us both. "Not romantically, but genuinely. You were my friend, Hannah. I valued you."
"Until you didn't."
"Until I didn't," I agreed. "And what happened after—you didn't deserve that. Any of it. I'm sorry for my part in bringing you here."
Her eyes searched mine, looking for the trick, the trap. Finding none, her shoulders dropped slightly.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For the time we had. Even the fucked-up parts. Even the—" She paused, searching for words. "The pleasure we shared."
"All of it had its moments."
"Some better than others." That broken laugh again, softer this time. "You know what's strange? I feel freer here than I did outside. No more performing. No more pretending. Just existing."
"There's a psychiatrist available, isn't there?" Genuine concern crept into my voice. "You should talk to someone, Hannah. Process everything that happened."
"Already am. Court-mandated therapy. My new best friend is Dr. Reeves, who thinks I have 'severe attachment disorders' and 'violent ideation.'" She shrugged. "She's probably right."
I stood, the metal chair scraping against concrete. "If you ever want to see me, call. I'll make time for you."
Hannah looked up, something flickering in her eyes—not quite hope, not quite regret.
"Once, I would have." Her voice dropped to barely audible. "I don't anymore."
I nodded, understanding. Some bridges burned too completely for rebuilding.
The walk to the exit felt endless. Behind me, Hannah sat alone at that metal table, orange scrubs bright as a warning under fluorescent lights. Ahead, Andrew waited in the car, probably already constructing walls between us and this day.
But I'd remember. The weight of her bones when she'd kneeled in my office. The desperation in her voice when she'd begged for money. The terrible sound of her laughter echoing off prison walls.
I'd orchestrated her destruction as carefully as any hostile takeover. The only difference was the currency—instead of stocks and contracts, we'd traded in flesh and fury, desire and degradation.
The door closed behind me with institutional finality.
Outside, wind cut through my coat like an accusation. But I didn't shiver. I'd learned long ago that guilt was just another emotion to manage, another variable to control.
Hannah would serve her time. Andrew would paint his guilt into abstract forms. And I would continue orchestrating our lives with the same ruthless precision that had brought us here.
Some might call it evil. I called it necessary.