I asked her to sit down on the hard wooden chair beside my desk. She co-operated, sitting down cautiously as if she were not allowed. She shuffled nervously, straightening her skirt and tucking the majority of it under her legs.

“Mrs James, I will be needing to ask you a few questions…about your husband,” I stated, writing down nothing of interest on my note pad. I was new at this and I was trying my hardest to look professional.

She looked up at me with tired eyes. She pulled an old packet of cigarettes out of her coat pocket and extracted one. She stuck it between her lips and lit the end of it with an antique lighter, displaying a skewed copy of the American flag. It was obviously old as the red had faded and the white of the stars was a murky gray.

“It was my mother’s,” Eleanor James said quietly, as if reading my mind. It made me uneasy, having her figure me out so easily. She smiled half-heartedly and tapped her smoke on the ashtray sitting on my desk. “I better answer your questions then.”