“You ready?” He asks.
I nod but don’t raise my fist to knock yet, still pumping myself up. This is my first high-stakes interview. I’ve never done anything like it. The information I get here, or don’t get, could be everything to this case.
“You’ll be great,” he says simply.
Then the door opens before we even knock. A woman in her fifties stands there in yoga pants and a Lululemon sweatshirt, arms crossed, cautious.
“You’re Officer Johnson?” she asks, then her eyes flick to Anton behind me.
Judging by her defensive posture, she doesn’t feel like the person who agreed to me coming by today.
“Officer Freya Johnson,” I say, lifting my badge. “This is Anton Easton, my colleague. Thank you for seeing us. Mind if we come in?”
She steps back, opening space for us to enter, but it’s reluctant.
Anton stays a half step behind me as we cross the threshold, his posture easy, his eyes tracking everything.
We follow her inside, and she gestures toward two chairs in the living room. We sit.
I keep my voice kind but not too gentle, suddenly self-conscious about my bump again and how that might beperceived. “When Andy’s name was raised in conjunction with the Zoe Marshall case, I figured he’d want to have a chance to speak for himself.”
Good cop.
Andy Tarmigan enters the living room from the kitchen. He’s tall and lean, with a head of floppy hair that hasn’t quite figured out what decade it belongs in.
And he stares at me like I’m the enemy.
Next to me, Anton shifts slightly; he’s coiled next to me, and I know there’s no physical threat, but just having him here with me is reassuring, makes me braver.
I offer a calm smile. “Andy, thanks for making time to help us move this forward.”
“Not my first rodeo.” His wry smile matches the sarcasm in his words. “But you already know that, I’m sure. You said this is about Zoe Marshall?”
“It is,” I confirm.
He crosses his arms. “Then why does it feel like déjà vu?”
“I’m not here to accuse anyone,” I say. “I’m here because the case is still open. The cause of death hasn’t been fully determined.”
Andy shakes his head and shoves a forefinger and thumb into his eye sockets. When he glances up, his mom makes eye contact with him, silently instructing him to get on with it.
He lowers himself onto the couch. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”
I glance back at Anton beside me, solid and unassuming. Backup—but also the steady weight at my back.
Andy drops onto the arm of the couch and rubs his jaw.
I keep my tone even and calm. “We know you showed her property not long before her accident,” I call it anaccident rather than an incident, and Andy’s shoulders drop just a little. “I thought you could offer insight into her character and also maybe her financial situation.”
I remember Ingram saying Zoe’s parents denied her start-up capital for her flower shop. So why was she looking at property with Andy?
“Would you say Zoe seemed like a depressed individual?”
“Depressed?” My question disarmed him completely. “No, she was one of those bubbly types. Why would you think she was depressed?”
“The investigation thus far suggests the accident might have been suicide.” Again, telling him this will keep him from feeling like a suspect.
Andy’s eyebrows furrow. “Suicide? Well, the woman I dealt with didn’t seem in that kind of mental space. If that’s what you’re asking.”
