“I believe so,” I say. “Yes. It had blood on it.”
“Where is the knife now, Doctor?”
“It’s in my backyard.”
“You left it there?”
“I did.”
“Did you touch it?”
“No,” I say.
“Whereabouts in your backyard?” he asks, and I try to describe it for him, though I imagine that by now the knife is engulfed in snow.
“And what about this washcloth? Where is that?”
“Under the washing machine. In the laundry room,” I tell him. He asks if there’s blood on that still, too, and I say yes. He excuses himself and leaves the room. For nearly thirty seconds he’s gone, and when he comes back, he tells me that Officer Bisset is going to my home to retrieve the washcloth and knife. I say to him, “My son is home,” but he assures me that’s all right, that Officer Bisset will be in and out quickly. That he won’t bother Otto.
“But I think, Officer,” I start and then just as soon stop. I don’t know how to say this. I pick at the rim of the disposable cup, pieces of foam coming with me, gathering in a pile on the tabletop like snow.
And then I come right out and say it. “I think maybe my son murdered Mrs. Baines,” I say. “Or maybe Imogen did.”
I expect more of a reaction. But instead he goes on, as if I didn’t just say those words aloud.
“There’s something you should know, Dr. Foust,” he says, and I ask, “What’s that?”
“Your husband...”
“Yes?”
“Will—”
I hate this way he beats around the bush. It’s utterly maddening. “I know my husband’s name,” I snap, and for a moment he stares at me, saying nothing.
“Yes,” he says in time. “I suppose you do.”
A beat of silence passes by. All the while, he stares at me. I shift in my seat.
“When he called, he retracted his earlier statement about the night Mrs. Baines was killed. About how the two of you were watching TV and then went straight to bed. According to your husband, that’s not entirely true.”
I’m taken aback. “It’s not?”
“It’s not. Not according to Mr. Foust.”
“What did Mr. Foust say happened?” I churlishly ask as voices come through on the police scanner, loud but indistinct. Officer Berg goes to it, turning the volume down so that we can speak.
He returns to his chair. “He said that that night, after your program ended, you didn’t go to bed like you said. He said you walked the dogs instead. You took the dogs for a walk while he went up to the bedroom to wash up. You were gone quite some time, your husband said.”
I feel something inside of me start to shift.
Someone is lying. But I don’t know who.
“Is that right?” I ask.
“That’s right,” he says.
“But that’s not true,” I argue. I don’t know why Will would say this. There’s only one thing that I can think. That Will would do anything to protect Otto and Imogen. Anything at all. Even if it means throwing me to the wolves.
