I blink and realize that Mustache was still asking me questions. “Sorry, could you ask that again?”
“I said, Did Mr. Wilkinson say anything about who attacked him?”
“No. He wouldn’t talk. He just kept shaking his head.”
“Well, do you have any idea who might have done this?”
Here it is. The question I’ve been dreading since the moment I saw the blood on the floor.
Oh, yes, Officer, I know exactly who did this. He smells like cinnamon, and if you gave me a pen, I could sketch out the shape of his body in the dark. He’s on the train and in my apartment, in my coffee shop, in the dingy back hallway of this tiny Thai restaurant. He’s everywhere, Officer. I can still feel the imprint of his tongue on my neck.
But I know that if I say any of that, the next question is: Why didn’t you report
