“Mitch—”
“Arguing about it won’t change my mind, so save your breath. You texted Malone that you’d made it home without incident. I’m ninety-nine percent certain that he will check to make sure you’re there.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To test your honesty. That’s what tonight’s spontaneous dinner was about. He was feeling you out because of—”
“Your sessions with me.”
“Well, good! You’re finally getting it.”
He dropped the baseball back into the ashtray and sat down in one of the chairs. Its seat cushion had been worn thin by Bowie family posteriors.
And Mitch’s own butt had contributed to the indentation in the cushion’s center. He couldn’t count the hours that John andhe had sat side by side in this pair of chintz eyesores and talked over cases, or planned their next fishing excursion, or laughed over escapades they’d shared that got more exaggerated with each retelling.
He missed his friend. He missed Andrew. He missed having a life beyond anything except this fucking quest for revenge. It might eat him alive before he achieved it.
But he couldn’t give up now. He’d made Angela a vow. He wouldn’t let her down a second time.
Dylan hadn’t moved from where she stood, arms crossed and hugging her waist, watching him with uncertainty, which, he realized now, was justified.
He said, “You can charge your after-hours rate, but let’s make this an unscheduled session so that what I’m going to tell you is confidential. Deal?”
She nodded.
“Okay. Earlier tonight, you asked me how I know that Roland Malone killed Angela.” She nodded again.
“Fair question. Deserves an answer.”
He rested his head on the back of the chair and stared at the stamped-tin ceiling. “One of the factors that convinced everyone Angela had committed suicide, in addition to the postpartum depression, was that she had taken off her wedding ring.”
Without moving his head, he cut his eyes toward Dylan, believing that she would understand the implication of that. Gauging by her sorrowful expression, she did.
“I couldn’t fathom why she would do that,” he said. “To my knowledge she hadn’t removed it since I’d slid it onto her finger at the altar. To everyone else, it seemed like a clear sign that she hadn’t been in her right mind, that she had harbored more resentment toward me and the baby than I was aware of. So on.
“I shot down those suppositions because they were too painful for me to contemplate. But I couldn’t come up with an alternative explanation for why she would have taken off her ring.
“So doubts have stalked me, bedeviled me, made me question Angela’s mental state, our marriage, her love for me and Andrew, my failure to recognize or acknowledge the depth of her depression.
“Gin helped to keep the doubts at bay, but I couldn’t drink enough to wash them down. They stayed with me, always there at the back of my mind, jeering at me.”
He lifted his head from the cushion and looked directly into Dylan’s eyes. “Until this Monday night.”
She’d been listening raptly, without moving. Now she blinked, she swallowed. “What happened Monday night?”
“I got the explanation for why Angela had switched her wedding band from her left ring finger to the pinky finger of her right hand.”
She assimilated that, and, when understanding dawned, she actually shuddered.
“Um-huh,” he said. “The last thing she did while she was still conscious was clue me to who had made her get into that car and start the motor.”
Chapter 24
Dylan walked over and sat down in the chair separated from Mitch’s by the table. She leaned over the chair’s stuffed arm in silent encouragement for him to tell her more.
“I’d been surveilling Malone and his customers for months.” He told her how he’d come to be at Malone’s kitchen door on Monday night. “I only wanted to look inside the place, but, suddenly, there he was, practically filling up the doorway.
“I’ve dealt with plenty of tough customers, but I don’t think I’ve ever looked into a pair of eyes as empty as Malone’s. Soulless. You never noticed? Or is he different with you?”
