As my mind whirrs at this new accusation, the detective cackles. “Do you think being an FBI bigshot would prevent us from prosecuting you?”
I’m confused. How did we go from prints on a pocketbook to sex with two women?
“Did it get too physical? If you confess to accidentally killing her, we can reduce the charge to manslaughter. Otherwise, you could be facing life in prison.”
I want to deny everything and tell her to shove these bogus charges up her ass, but this is the kind of reaction she is hoping for; a chink in my armor to get me to start talking.
“Did you know Joanne was a prostitute? From what we’ve discovered, she liked it rough. Was your wife too boring in bed? Is this why you had your ex find you a more interesting hook-up?”
As she degrades my integrity, it becomes harder and harder to keep my trap shut. Where is this coming from? No doubt, the locals have found damning evidence. I pray Trever has the answers once they finally release me.
Dropping the good cop guise, the veteran investigator tosses more disturbing images onto the flat surface. The pursecontaining my fingerprint lies on top. Another photo displays its contents, including Joanne’s driver’s license and credit cards.
Earlier, at the morgue, I noted how the victim and Brittany had matching bleached blond cuts. Wearing the same shade of lipstick and coverup, the two could be sisters.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve been in trouble, is it? You were an angry kid. Mommy issues.”
The unwanted memories make me bite down on my tongue. My mother beat the shit out of me whenever she could. The one time I fought back, she called the cops. Despite my extensive bruises, the authorities believed the adult in the room. The state should’ve kept my juvenile records hidden. How the hell did these local-yokels get ahold of them?
No matter. My counselor will have a field day devouring these yahoos. I raise one brow, a move I perfected in the mirror, and smile.
Rattled, the tops of her cheeks brighten as she drops her gaze. “This is your last chance. Take my offer of manslaughter.”
“Lawyer.” I neither nod nor shake my head. If they play this back in court, no one can claim I declined or accepted her deal.
Once she collects her pictures, she places them in her folder and stands. At the door, she swivels toward me.
“I still don’t understand why you offered to have the FBI aid in our investigation. You must’ve known we would uncover your guilt.” Shaking her head, she departs and again, I slide under the table, but this time, sleep refuses to come.
Where’s their evidence? Was Joanne hiding in the stalls when Brittany brought us in there? If so, for what reason? Why switch purses? Calming my mind, I close my eyes and recall the fateful evening. The restroom had one dim yellow light, making it hard to see myself. Much like in Europe, the gender-free bathroom contained three stalls. Focused on the Danbury meetup and rattled by my ex, I hadn’t checked them.
Hours later, my lawyer, Andy Quinn, enters the room. Squatting on his heels, he sticks his head under the table. He must’ve left in a hurry. Instead of a designer suit, gold cuff links, and a striped tie, he wears khaki cargo shorts with a white collared shirt.
After he yanks me from my sleeping spot, I stand and hold out my hand. “Thanks for coming.”
The solicitor’s confident grip contradicts his grim countenance. “No problem. Did you say anything to anyone?”
“No. Not a word, but I’m dying to know what they have on me.” A tidal wave of dread threatens to take me out, but I swallow hard and hold my shit together.
Sensing my worry, the experienced and expensive lawyer slaps me on the back. “Hang tight. They’re finding us a private room.”
Once we’re led to a broom closet, I unfold two chairs. Elbows in, he waves an electronic wand and checks for listening devices.
When he’s convinced no one listens in, he opens a recording app on his cell phone and places it on his knees. “Tell me everything.”
I explain the honeymoon beach house, the knock on the door, and Brittany’s proposal. Then, I describe in detail the events at the tavern, including the sexual encounter ruse, my wife’s unexpected arrival, and the assassin who got away.
“So, you never met with her so-called informant.” His question, while logical, makes my fists clench, and ears ring.
Sure, I know I fucked up, and it pisses me off.
“I didn’t, but my wife did.” Using his perfect segue, I mention Danbury in the hotel bar and my cornfield conference.
“How long did you date your ex-partner?” Leaning forward in the claustrophobic space, he studies me, no doubt looking for a reaction.
“We weren’t in a relationship, if that’s what you’re asking. We slept together on and off for perhaps three months. We both agreed the only thing we had in common was a healthy sex drive and didn’t pursue more. I haven’t seen or spoken to her in over two years. Now, she claims we were in love. She’s delusional.” Speaking my truth to an impartial party has a cathartic effect and my mind quiets.
Frowning, Quinn taps a finger on his bare knee. “Last year, I understand you broke a few rules while rescuing Gwen from her now dead ex-husband.”
