They’d made a mistake. A small one, maybe, but that was all it took.
Something told me this would be the last I heard from my friend for a while.
7
Shay
The porch groaned under my boots, and I made a small mental note about the wood’s integrity. The last thing I needed was to fall through some rotted board while questioning a witness. Come to think of it, the entire house bore the marks of neglect, with white paint peeling from the siding, gutters hanging loose and clogged with leaves.
I knocked on the door. Behind me, Adam shifted his weight, and I could feel his presence, solid and watchful. We’d done this dance a hundred times before.
I heard movement inside; shuffling footsteps, slow and hesitant. A shadow passed across the window, paused, then vanished.
“Mrs. Valdez?” I called out, pulling my badge and holding it up to the peephole. “Detective Sawyer, Homicide. We need to talk to you about the 911 call you made this morning.”
More silence. I was about to knock once more when I heard the scrape of a chain, the click of a deadbolt, then another deadbolt—a woman who didn’t skimp on security, it seemed.
The door opened about six inches, and I got my first look at Camila Valdez.
Deep purple shadows cupped her eyes like bruises. Her hair—jet black, shot through with silver—hung limp and unwashed around her shoulders, framing a face that might have been called beautiful once, before the weight of all the years she carried had settled into her features. She wore a thick, oversized cardigan despite the space heater, which I could see glowing orange behind her, clutching it closed at her throat like armor.
“Mrs. Valdez?” I kept my voice gentle, as if speaking to a wild animal. She looked like she might bolt at any sudden movement. “I’m Detective Sawyer. This is my partner, Detective Keller. Can we come in and talk to you about what you saw this morning?”
Her eyes flicked from me to Adam and back again, assessing. I’d seen that look before, usually on people who’d learned the hard way that authority figures weren’t always on your side.
“I already told them everything,” she said, voice hoarse. “On the phone. I don’t know anything else.”
“I understand, and we appreciate you making that call. But sometimes people remember details later, after the initial shock wears off. It would really help us if we could go over it one more time.” I paused, then added, “We can do it out here if you’d prefer, but it’s pretty cold.”
Which was true. The January wind cut through my jacket, and I could see my breath misting in the air. Mrs. Valdez glanced past us at the house next door, where crime scene techs were still processing the scene, their van parked in the street, flanked by police cars.
She made a decision. The door opened wider.
“Five minutes,” she said.
The interior of the house was dim and cramped, but surprisingly clean. A crucifix hung on the wall next to a portrait of the Virgin Mary, and I could smell the waxy scent of candles recently burned.
She moved to the couch, and I took the armchair while Adam remained standing by the doorway, a notebook in his hand. He had a gift for making himself forgettable, for blending into the background until people forgot they were being watched.
“Can you walk me through this morning?” I asked, keeping my tone conversational. “Start from when you woke up.”
“I woke up around five-thirty. I always wake up early—I have insomnia, you see.”
“Did you hear anything unusual? From next door or outside?”
“No. Nothing.”
“When did you first realize something was wrong?”
“Around six,” she said, pulling the sleeves of her cardigan over her hands. “I was doing dishes at the kitchen sink, and when I looked out the window, I noticed that Martin’s back door was open.”
“His back door,” I repeated. “You could see his back door from your kitchen?”
“Yes. Our yards back up to each other. There’s a fence between us, but it’s chain-link. You can see through it.” She stood abruptly and moved toward the hall. “Come here, I’ll show you.”
We followed her into a narrow galley kitchen, and she pointed out the window above the sink. I moved closer to look. Sure enough, I had a clear view of Martin Baker’s backyard and his back door, which was currently closed and markedwith crime scene tape.
“That’s when you knew something was wrong?” Adam asked from behind us. “Just because the door was open?”
