In the last twenty-four hours, Josie and Turner had been able to review text messages between Charles and Maxine. Not only had he moved out of their house, he and Maxine Barnes were officially getting a divorce. However, things had been extremely contentious and ugly. Josie doubted he had had time to fully process his loss. Perhaps his anger felt like a safer emotion to handle right now than grief. Josie knew better than anyone how differently it affected people. Was Charles Barnes in denial? A lack of emotion regarding his wife’s death might not be all that surprising, but what kind of father was more concerned withretrieving his family’s personal possessions than his daughter’s murder?
ELEVEN
Josie rolled the cold water bottle across her forehead, letting the condensation mix with her sweat. It shouldn’t have felt so good, but the ride to Denton PD headquarters crammed inside her SUV with Turner and Charles Barnes and a broken air-conditioning unit had caused perspiration to collect in creases she didn’t even realize she had.
“I hope that’s not for that asshole. I don’t want him comfortable.” Turner strode down the hall, stopping at the door to interview room two, where Charles Barnes had been waiting for the past half hour.
In answer, Josie twisted the cap off and downed half of it. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she said, “When you interviewed him after the domestic call, how did he act?”
“You didn’t read my report?”
“I want to hear it from you.”
She had read all the reports related to the incident; Turner’s had been far more thorough than usual.
“He was cocky,” Turner said. “I think he knew Maxine wouldn’t press charges and he was gloating over it. I wound him up a little, but he stuck with his story that the whole thinghad been a misunderstanding. Said his daughter was a dumb teenager who liked to stir up drama.”
“Jesus.”
“Yep. He’s garbage.”
That was all Turner had to say about the incident, apparently. A minute ticked by. Then another. Finally, Josie sighed. “Are we going to talk about what happened at the glamping office?”
Turner dug inside one of his jacket pockets and came up with a can of the disgusting energy drink he seemed to survive on. He popped it with a flourish and poured it down his throat. Then he belched, crumpled the can and stuffed it back into his pocket. “No.”
“Not even how you knew that statute off the top of your head?” Josie asked pointedly. “The one you used to manhandle Charles Barnes?”
Turner scoffed. “Like you don’t want to kick that guy’s ass.”
“The only thing I want is to find the person who killed Maxine and Haven Barnes.”
“Don’t get all holier than thou, Quinn. I’m not here for it today. Come on.”
Before Josie could respond, Turner threw the door to the interview room open. Its aesthetic was almost as depressing as the morgue. The cinderblock walls had been painted a periwinkle blue, which was supposed to be soothing and encourage openness but only succeeded in making the room feel like a cell. The metal table had more blemishes than a hormonal teenager. The laminate floor tile, which had been white with gray specks but was now gray with black specks, had chipped in several places. Charles Barnes sat sullenly in one of the chairs, arms crossed over his chest, his knees spread wide. Manspreading, as Gretchen liked to say.
Turner plopped into a seat diagonally from him and matched his pose. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Josie tried to remember an interview in which Turner hadn’t antagonized the subject. They were few and far between.
If Barnes caught the undertone of sarcasm in Turner’s tone, he didn’t show it. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
Josie took the seat directly across from Barnes. She made introductions and read him his rights. When she asked him if he understood them, he said, “Yeah. I didn’t do anything, though.”
“We’ll see,” Turner said. “How long were you and your wife married?”
Charles’s brow furrowed, as if he was confused by the question. “Didn’t you ask me that last time you questioned me?”
“Maybe, maybe not. We’re starting over. How long were you and Maxine married?”
Barnes studied Turner, his lips twisted in contempt. Josie could practically hear him mentally selecting whatever response would piss Turner off the most.
“Mr. Barnes,” she interjected. “We’re not here to talk about what happened today. I know this is difficult for you, but we need to discuss your wife and daughter. We’d just like to get a little background information first.”
“How long were you married to Maxine?” Turner repeated.
“Eighteen years.”
“So you got married because she got pregnant,” Turner said bluntly.
