Page 133 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“That was me. She and I still exchange Christmas cards.” I force Dr. Mohr-ish earnestness into my expression. How nice to be remembered! “Not to, ah, violate confidentiality,” I continue, “but I’m wondering if you know anything about the history between Mr. and Mrs. Overton.”

Like, for example, that Ray Overton’s about to be arrested and charged with killing his wife.

Azad gives me a searching look. “I responded to a domestic violence call at this address last year. No charges were filed.”

“This doesn’t surprise me.” I hold her gaze until Roberts returns to the front of the house, his breath steaming in the cold air.

“Locked back doors, no tracks in the snow, one car in the garage.”

“Any sign of movement in the room?” Azad jerks her chin toward the bright windows overhead, and Roberts shakes his head.

Delay and she dies. Rush and she dies in prison.

Azad keys her radio and updates dispatch, her words washing over me—unspecified emergency call, illuminated second-story window, no response to knock and announce, subject may still be inside, civilian, Mohr—while the panicky animal inside my brain snarls at me to hit Roberts’s brachial plexus, grab his cuffs, subdue his Azad, find my girl, carry her to safety.

A different, slightly more rational panicky animal suggests I not assault the cop who just gave my name to dispatch.

“Roberts, get the ram from the trunk,” Azad orders. While we wait, she says, “Care to tell me when you last spoke to Lindsay Overton?”

I grimace. “Legally, I can’t.” I glance around and adjust my glasses before leaning close to whisper, “I’m worried about her safety when she’s with Mr. Overton.” I’m speaking my fears out loud, although it’s not about the woman they think.

Roberts returns with a two-foot-long red metal cylinder.

“Move,” he grunts.

I move, my dread and panic mounting as he uses the grab handles to slam it into the black-lacquered door once, twice, three times before it crashes open. He kicks it the rest of the way, and Azad hits me with a stern, “Stay. Here.” before the two of them disappear inside.

One by one, the downstairs rooms light up, with the officers shouting, “Clear!” as they work their way through the main floor. I stand on the front stoop next to the shattered doorframe, check my phone, and build the timeline.

Felicity called me twenty-five minutes ago, having just discovered the short in the barn that kept the jammer from charging. According to Pell, Overton’s 911 call came in nine minutes ago. The police and I arrived four minutes ago.

Was that enough time for her to make it to safety? Assuming she wasn’t injured in the fight. Assuming her car was nearby. Assuming she isn’t on the floor of that upstairs room, her face pale, her lips blue, her⁠—

I shake my head, rejecting the idea of a world without her in it.

One more delay now that they’re inside. That’s what I can do for her right now. Thirty more seconds to get out if she’s running. Thirty more seconds from help if she’s not.

Those are the only options I allow myself to consider as I keep my feet planted on the Overtons’ welcome mat and lean the cardigan-clad half of my body into the foyer. Time for one more bit of playacting to champion poor Lindsay, who’s already beyond help.

“You know, Officer Azad,” I shout, “it occurs to me that a crisis responder might be useful here.”

As expected, two pairs of feet come rushing back to the entryway, with a livid Azad in the lead and a sweaty, huffing Roberts several steps behind.

“Dammit, Dr. Mohr—” she starts, but I roll right over her.

“It’s just, you’ve got a domestic violence survivor in there with her abuser,” I say, delivering the most cluelessly sincere performance of my life in the middle of the sharpest terror I’ve ever experienced. “I could help you with⁠—”

“Get the fuck out!” Roberts roars.

I raise my hands in meek surrender. “I’m, uh, technically not inside the house.” I point at my feet, then adjust my glasses with a nervous smile.

Azad looks ready to slap cuffs on me, but she contains herself to a clipped, “You and I are going to talk later.” Then she snaps at Roberts and gestures toward the stairs. Once they’re out of sight, I allow myself to sag against the house’s exterior, doubling over and resting my hands on my knees as snow drifts around me.

Fuck, baby, please be okay.

What seems like an eternity later, a police radio squawks.

“We’ve got a body,” I hear Azad tell dispatch. “Multiple stab wounds.”