 The Wife by Alifair Burke, narrated by Jane Perry. In an instant, I became the woman they assumed I'd been all along, the wife who lied to protect her husband. I almost didn't hear the knock on the front door. I had removed the brass knocker twelve days earlier, as if that would stop another reporter from showing up unannounced. Once I realized the source of the sound, I sat up straight in bed, hitting mute on the TV remote. Hiding the instinct to freeze, I forced myself to take a look. I parted the drawn bedroom curtains, squinting against the afternoon sun. I saw the top of a head of short black hair on my stoop, the impala in front of the fire hydrant across the street practically screamed, unmarked police car. It was that same detective, back again. I still had her business card tucked away in my purse, where Jason wouldn't see it. She kept knocking, and I kept watching her knock, until she sat on the front steps and started reading my paper. I threw on a sweatshirt over my tank top and pajama pants, and made my way to the front door. Did I wake you? Her voice was filled with judgment. It's three o'clock in the afternoon. I wanted to say I didn't owe anyone an explanation for lying around my own house, but instead I muttered that I had a migraine. Line number one, small, but a line nonetheless. You should take vinegar and honey. Works every time. I think I'd rather have a headache. If you need to talk to Jason, you can call our lawyer. I told you before, Olivia Randall's not your lawyer. She's Jason's. I started to close the door, but she pushed it back open. And you may think your husband's case is on hold, but I can still investigate, especially when it's about an entirely new charge. I should have slammed the door, but she was baiting me with the threat of incoming shrapnel. I'd rather take it in the face than wait for it to strike me in the back. What is it now? I need to know where your husband was last night. Of all nights, why did she have to ask about that one? For any other date of our six-year marriage, I could have offered a truthful account. I already knew from Jason's lawyer that this wasn't the stuff covered by spousal privilege. They could haul me into a grand jury. They could use my failure to answer as proof that I was hiding something. And a detective was at my door with what seemed like a simple question. Where had my husband been the previous night? He was here with me. It had been twelve years since a police officer last asked me a direct question, but my first instinct was still to lie. All night? Yes. Our friend brought over food. Sample complete. Ready to continue?