"Evidence?" Janet's voice stayed steady, but her fingers tightened on Tom's shoulder.
"Among other things, a broken mechanical pencil. Clear barrel, 2B lead." Cory's tone remained conversational, but Izzy saw the trap being set. "Funny thing about pencils—they're excellent for fingerprints. All those ridges on the barrel, the clip, the mechanism."
Janet's eyes flicked to Tom's shirt pocket, then away. A moment too late, she caught herself and forced her gaze back to Cory.
"Our lab’ll have results soon," Cory lied. "Amazing what forensics can pull these days. Partial prints, DNA from skin cells. Even if someone wore gloves, there's usually trace evidence from earlier handling."
Which there would be, if the pencil hadn’t been ground to practically dust.
The color drained from Janet's face. Her eyes darted to the pencil in Tom's pocket again, lingered, then found Izzy watching her. The brittle smile cracked at the edges.
"That's... that's fascinating," Janet managed. "The advances in forensic science."
"Tom, you said you were home sick?" Cory pressed gently.
"Yes, I was definitely here. In bed, mostly. Miserable." Tom looked to his wife. "You can confirm that, can't you, dear?"
Janet's hand now gripped his shoulder hard enough to wrinkle the fabric. "Tom was very ill when I left for my volunteer shift. I almost canceled, but he insisted I go."
"Volunteer shift?" Izzy prompted.
"The Art Museum gift shop. Every Friday, ten to four." Janet's eyes kept returning to that pencil like a compass finding north. "It's my little contribution to the community."
So Janet couldn't actually confirm Tom's whereabouts during the shooting.
"I was still in bed when she got home," Tom added. "Wasn't I, darling?"
"Barely moved all day, poor thing." Janet stood abruptly, smoothing her sweater. "I'll just... I'll make coffee anyway. I need some myself."
As she passed Tom's chair, her hand brushed his pocket—definitely checking the pencil. Her eyes met Izzy's for a fraction of a second, and Izzy saw naked fear there.
"Actually," Izzy said, "could I use your restroom?"
"Of course. Down the hall, second door on the right." Janet's relief was palpable—she wanted Izzy gone while she dealt with... whatever she needed to deal with.
Izzy took her time in the hallway, ears straining. Heard Janet's footsteps heading not to the kitchen but to the study off the living room. Through the partially open door, she watched Janet go straight to Tom's desk, yanking open drawers.
Mechanical pencils. Dozens of them, scattered in the drawer like accusations. Janet grabbed them by the handful, shoving them into her sweater pockets. Some fell, clattering across the hardwood floor—clear barrels, dark leads visible.
2B leads. Just like Cory had described.
"What are you doing?"
Janet spun, pencils falling from her overstuffed pockets. She dropped to her knees, scrambling to collect them, tears already streaming.
"Please," Janet whispered, gathering pencils like evidence of murder. Which they might be. "I don't know what you think he's done..."
"What are you afraid he's done?" Izzy kept her voice level, crouching to Janet's level.
"He's a good man." The words came out fierce through the tears. "He's just been so confused lately."
"Confused how?"
"Since the Mountain Angel incidents started. He keeps saying he should have caught something. Blames himself." Janet clutched the pencils to her chest. "He's not sleeping. Sometimes I find him just staring at his reports, like he's looking for something that isn't there."
"Janet—"
"He's not capable of violence." The words tumbled out desperately. "Whatever you think happened, Tom couldn't... he wouldn't... Those pencils, they're everywhere. He must go through fifty a week. Anyone could have?—"
