“He also says that you claimed she locked you in her basement and left town. He said you were adamant that she was going to leave you there to starve to death. He said that you thought she had murdered another woman called Caroline Churchwell.”
I don’t answer. Can I admit now what’s happening? Can I admit the obvious, what I’ve known ever since I saw Bradley outside the house of his in-laws, what I should have knownbefore, if I’d only been paying attention, if I hadn’t been such a pathetic, idiotic, naive little?—
“What happened to Caroline Churchwell, Detective Holland?”
“She’s alive and well. Lives in Montreal with her boyfriend. No complaints about Mrs. Little.”
“None at all?”
Sinclair clears his throat, but Gelman raises her hand. “Hold on. He also says you complained about Mrs. Little using your photo as shooting practice.”
“That’s quite a claim,” Holland says.
“Any evidence, though?”
“No evidence.”
“Any evidence for any of these claims?”
“No evidence.”
“Enough of this pantomime!” Sinclair says with frustration. “My client has been here for four hours, and you still haven’t explained precisely what we’re doing here. A woman died tragically in a wildfire, and you’re raking over the coals of her personal life with hearsay. Either cut to the chase or let us leave.”
Holland glares at him, but to his credit, my lawyer glares back.
“Your lawyer is impatient, Brie,” Gelman says.
“Ms. MacKenzie to you,” Sinclair growls.
“Let’s cut to the chase, then. What is there evidence of, Detective Holland?”
When he speaks, Holland’s voice is low and threatening. I look down at my hands, though I can feel him staring at me. “There’s evidence that you developed an obsession for Mr. and Mrs. Little. There’s evidence that you wanted to take her place. You tried your best to seduce him into an affair, and when that didn’t work, you decided to kill her.”
“No!” I say.
Sinclair bristles beside me. “The only so-called evidence you have to support this wildly offensive theory is from the unsubstantiated claims of Bradley Little, the very man who stands to make millions from her death. This really is amateur hour, guys. Do your job or let us leave.”
“We’re not done,” Gelman snaps.
“Get done.”
I glance at Sinclair, impressed by his backbone. If this is what a free lawyer looks like, I’m impressed. But I can tell that he’s bluffing. He knows there’s more. There has to be more.
“Ms. Mackenzie, how much money do you owe on your student loans?”
“For God’s sake.”
“Ms. Mackenzie, advise your lawyer not to interrupt. You know where I’m going with this. How much do you owe?”
“Nothing.”
“How is that possible? Before you moved in, you owed close to a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Bradley paid them off for me.”
“Is that so? Because Mr. Little claims that you stole that money from him two days before you murdered his wife.”
Sinclair argues again about the proof they have—and there isn’t any. Nothing but Bradley’s word. The argument suddenly ends, and the room is silent, except for the ticking clock. Detective Holland is hunched over the table, staring impatiently, as if he’d much rather try more direct, more medieval techniques.
