“And you didn’t tell anyone what you’d done.Not Gil, not Craig.”
“No.Nobody knew.When I heard the next day that Spencer was in the hospital and alive, of course I was relieved.I hadn’t wanted to kill him.I just wanted him to stop.”
I didn’t believe her.
“Okay, I’m going to summarize a few things, and you just tell me if I’ve understood what you told me here tonight.”I cleared my throat.“Tess, for the record, you’re saying you intentionally drove Craig Barlow’s truck into Spencer Cross as he walked home on Tideline Road?”
“Yes.”Her voice was barely audible.
“And earlier tonight at the Rusty Anchor, you pointed a loaded firearm at Spencer Cross and threatened to shoot him.”
“Yes.”She sighed.“I was angry at him.He ruined everything.But mostly, I just wanted to get out of there with Gil.Are you sure you won’t let me talk to Gil?I really need to talk to him.”
I ignored that, intent on getting her confession on the record.
“And on the night Eddie Salcedo died, you took a skiff to the Pacific Lady, confronted Eddie, pushed him, causing him to strike his head on the gunwale, and then tampered with the GPS and staged the scene to look like an accident.”
“Yes.”She suddenly looked emotional again.Tears slid down her face, but her voice was steady.“I did all of that.I know it makes me a terrible person, but I’d do it all again to protect Gil.Even though he hates me now.I’d still do it.”She swallowed hard, her cheeks flushed.“I think we’ll be able to work it out.Once he calms down.”
I studied her, feeling repulsed.There was no doubt in my mind she’d do it all again for Gil.That was the part that bothered me.She’d killed one man and almost another.But she wasn’t remorseful about what she’d done.She was remorseful about the outcome.If Gil had taken the alibi, if he’d played along, if he’d gotten in a car with her and driven away, she’d have considered the whole thing a success.The only thing that upset her was Gil looking at her like he didn’t want her anymore.
I’d heard all I needed to hear.I ended the interview, had Bree process Tess into custody, and went to my office to decompress.
* * *
I sat at my desk for an hour doing paperwork.Charging documents.Evidence logs.A preliminary report for the DA.The kind of administrative work that was necessary and mind-numbing.Usually that type of mindless paperwork helped center me.But tonight it didn’t.
I kept thinking about Spencer.How horrified I’d been when Tess pointed the gun at his chest.I kept seeing the wobble of the barrel and Tess’s finger on the trigger.I couldn’t forget the fraction of a second where I’d calculated whether I could draw and fire before she pulled it, and the answer had been no.If she’d squeezed that trigger, Spencer would be dead, and there was nothing I could have done about it.
The station was quiet.Bree had gone home.Tess was in a holding cell.Gil had given his statement about the poaching, cooperating fully, and I’d released him to go home pending charges.We had what we needed to move forward on Eddie’s homicide.I should have felt satisfied.Instead, I felt agitated.Unsettled.Worried about Spencer.I thought about texting him or maybe calling, but I didn’t think that would be enough to calm my anxiety.
There had been too many close calls with Spencer recently, and I felt the only thing that would make me feel calmer was to see him in person.So I grabbed my jacket and my keys and walked out of the station.The entire drive to his home, I kept weighing whether I should turn around or not.Was I overreacting?Being too clingy?But when I parked in front of Spencer’s cottage, I knew I had to go inside.I needed to see with my own eyes that he was okay.
His home was dark except for the glow of a TV coming from the living room window.I sat in the driveway for a minute with the engine running.I cut the engine and walked to the front door.I knocked and waited.I heard footsteps, slow and slightly uneven, and then the door opened.Spencer stood in the doorway in sweats and a white T-shirt, barefoot, holding a glass of whiskey.His eyes were a little glassy, and his hair was in dark, messy spikes.
He looked surprised to see me as he said, “Declan, what are you doing here?”
“Hey.”My voice was gruff.“Can I come in?”
“Sure.”He stepped aside, and I entered.
The cottage was warm, and I noticed a half-empty bottle of Jameson on the counter and a glass.The TV was on but muted, casting flickering light across the room.He turned on a lamp and faced me, arms crossed.
He gestured to the bottle of whiskey.“Want a drink?”
“I’m good.”
“Well, I’m going to keep drinking.”He grabbed the bottle of whiskey and the glass and carried them over to the couch.He sat down, watching me.“Are you just going to stand near the door the whole time?”
“No.”I followed him to the couch, sitting down beside him.
“You look tired,” he said, pouring himself some of the amber liquid.
“I’m exhausted,” I confessed.
He took a drink of his whiskey and then frowned.“Are you okay?”
I opened my mouth to say I was fine, but the lie wouldn’t come out.“I don’t know,” I said instead.
