The police offered Sam lunch, but he was too nervous to eat.
Apparently, so were Elliott and Tom. They sat in the small living area, rehashing what they knew, until the door’s deadbolt slammed open with a loud crack that made Sam jump.
A uniformed officer leaned in. She looked to be in her twenties, and peered at Sam with a grave look, like someone who knew the bad news he was yet to receive.
“They’re ready, sir,” she said quietly.
As he exited the room, Sam noticed an Absolom Sciences security guard standing by the door to his room.
Tom shrugged. “I want to make sure no one gets in your room, Sam. We can’t be too careful about listening devices. The police agreed to let our security do that.”
Sam followed the officer down the hall and past the offices and cubicles. With each step, he felt eyes watching him, some subtly looking up from their computers, others standing and openly gawking. In small towns—and small offices—news traveled fast. Secrets were impossible to keep. Sam wondered what they thought they were looking at. A murderer? A dead man walking?
The young officer left Sam, Elliott, and Tom in an interview room with no windows and minimal furniture: only six chairs and a long metal table. The walls were covered in fabric. Sam assumed it was for noise deadening.
Detectives Billings and Holloway arrived soon after.
Billings set down a tablet. “You’re making the right decision to talk with us, Dr. Anderson.”
Tom held his hands up. “I want to state first, for the record, that my client, Doctor Samuel Anderson, is innocent of murder.”
Holloway cut his eyes to Billings. She nodded once at him.
“Based on the evidence analyzed this morning,” Holloway said slowly, “at this juncture, we’re inclined to agree.”
Sam exhaled a breath he felt like he had been holding for a thousand years.
“Good,” Tom said, nodding.
“We believe,” Holloway continued, “that Dr. Anderson is actually an accessory to a murder in the second degree.”
Sam’s body went numb.
“A murder,” Holloway said, “committed by Adeline Anderson, in a moment of rage.”
Before he walked into that room, Sam thought that being convicted of murder was the worst thing he had to fear. But now he saw a fate far worse: Adeline being convicted, losing her freedom, and on the other side of Absolom, her life.
He had lost his wife.
He couldn’t lose his daughter.
The room seemed to explode then. Tom and Elliott began talking at the same time, both men growing louder as each tried to talk over the other.
Sam held his hands up. “Stop. Both of you.”
To Billings, he said, “Please tell me why you think Adeline is guilty.”
“We’ll show you why,” Billings said. “If you’re willing to meet us halfway.”
Tom began to speak, but Sam extended his hand in front of the man. “Please begin.”
Billings slid the tablet toward Sam and tapped it once.
A video began, showing the outside of Nora’s home. It was night, and Sam and Adeline were walking up to the front door, their faces clearly visible as he reached out and rang the doorbell. The video stopped with a still image of Nora, smiling as she swung the door wide to let them in.
Billings and Holloway both studied Sam’s face, but he simply stared at the tablet, revealing nothing. He was genuinely curious to see what was on the next video.
Nora was dead. He wanted to know what had happened. At the same time, he dreaded what he might see.
Billings touched the tablet again, and the second video played.
The timestamp was thirty-seven minutes later than the first. Once again, the front door to Nora’s home opened, and this time Adeline ran out into the street, tapping on her phone as she went. At the closest intersection, she got into an autocar and slipped away into the night.
On the video, Sam exited Nora’s home, looked both ways on the street, glimpsed the car driving away, and began the short walk back to his house.
Billings pulled the tablet back to her side of the table and tapped on it as she spoke.
“The next person to visit Dr. Thomas’s residence was a friend who was coming to join her for a morning jog. She peered in through the glass in the front door and noticed a body lying motionless and blood on the floor.”
“Is there a question?” Tom asked. “Where’s the actual evidence that Dr. Anderson or his daughter were involved in her death? This confirms they visited her and left—no more.”
Sam was lost in thought. His mind felt like it was trapped in a torture chamber of grief for Nora and confusion about what was happening—about what they were trying to do to Adeline.
“Mr. Morris,” Billings said, “we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t have evidence. Evidence we know is strong enough to convict.”
“Do you have video of my house?” Sam asked. “Of Adeline arriving?”
“Yes,” Billings said.
Sam braced for the answer to his question—a question he had to ask. He had to know. “Did she leave in the night?”
Holloway cocked his head. Billings studied Sam for a long moment. “No. She didn’t. After you and Miss Anderson returned to your residence, no one left until the two of you—along with your son—departed that morning for the cemetery.”
Tom was saying something. But Sam was in another place. He was only vaguely aware of the interrogation room. What he had learned, at that moment, was that Adeline was innocent. She hadn’t returned to Nora’s house. Not that he could ever imagine her doing that. But the world was strange sometimes.
Adeline had gotten her feelings hurt that night. But she hadn’t done something that couldn’t be undone. The truth would free her. And him. He clung to that thought like a rope hanging over a cliff. Absolom was below, and the facts would pull them free.
Sam had given the eulogy at his wife’s funeral service. It had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. The words he said next were a close second.
“How did she die?”
Holloway turned in his chair to Billings, who seemed troubled by Sam’s question.
“We think you know.”
“Just show me. Please.”
Elliott and Tom shared a glance, and so did Holloway and Billings. The detective slid the tablet forward.
The picture Sam saw there nearly made him vomit.
Nora lay on the floor of her kitchen, a wide gash in her neck. A pool of blood spread out around her on the tile floor.
Sam inhaled.
And exhaled.
He felt like he had woken from a nightmare only to learn that it wasn’t a dream. This was reality.
It couldn’t be.
It was wrong.
Nora Thomas was the kindest, gentlest woman he knew.
The picture of Nora lying dead, her blood spilled out like the liquid contents of a shattered wine bottle, gutted Sam.
If he stared at it much longer, the picture would break him. He had to focus. He had to protect Adeline. That was his life now. He knew it then. And nothing else mattered.
“Why,” Sam said, “do you think Adeline killed Nora? She clearly went home. And you admitted she didn’t leave that night. Until the morning.”
“The murder weapon,” Billings said.
“What about it?” Sam asked.
Billings tapped the tablet again, and a picture appeared of a knife laid out on a white plastic background.
“We found it in the tank of the toilet in the half bathroom off the foyer,” Billings said. “They have Miss Anderson’s prints on the handle. We detected significant amounts of Dr. Thomas’s blood on the blade. The water didn’t wash it away completely—or the prints, as Miss Anderson hoped they would.”
Billings watched Sam, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak.
She pressed on. “CSI detected a significant amount of both females’ blood in the living area and kitchen. Your prints are everywhere. We detected both women’s blood on your skin—we collected the sample while you were unconscious this morning. We also found trace amounts of Dr. Thomas’s blood on your daughter’s skin. Lastly, audio from surveillance cameras outside the home confirms the verbal altercation between the victim and Miss Anderson. It overlaps with the deceased’s projected time of death. It’s easily enough to convict both of you. You were there. Her prints are on the murder weapon. Both of you have blood on your hands.”
“We’re done here,” Sam said. “I want to see my daughter. Right now.”