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Neither Josie nor Gretchen commented, though Josie didn’t think it was such a bad idea for his family to get out of town for a while.

“After the funerals,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll be with them the whole time and then after the funerals they can go.”

Thirty-Two

Perched on the stool at her countertop, she crossed her legs, letting her skirt ride up. At first, he thought he’d enjoy her proximity. He sat down on the stool next to her and swiveled to face her. Then he let his knees fall open. She took the hint and scooted closer so that her legs were between his. This close, he got a whiff of her soap and fresh air smell. He waited for her to talk, to give him the long litany of problems in her life, to flirt, to draw him in and push him away. To do anything, but she just stared at him, unblinking, for long, silent moments that made his skin itch. Her eyes were too kind. She was trying too hard to be seductive. The combination was unnerving.

This was where he was supposed to flirt, to continue the good-guy ruse that had gotten him into her home so late at night in the first place. See what she would do. Make her be nice to him before he forced her to fight for her last breath. Or make her uncomfortable enough to ask him to leave and then kill her. The options were equally gratifying. Except she was too calm, too content to just look at him and wait for him to make the next move.

She wasn’t doing what she was supposed to. It pissed him off.

When he said, “Turn around,” she just smiled quizzically as if she was waiting for some kind of explanation.

“I said ‘turn around.’”

“Only if you make it worth my while,” she said in a low, sultry voice.

Fury filled up all the dead spaces inside him, screaming for release. He did his best to smile. Through gritted teeth, he said, “I will.”

Just like that, she stood up and turned around, caged in the space between his legs. Offering herself up.

As she jerked violently in her final throes, kicking over her stool, he whispered words that he usually saved for later.

“This is your fault.”

“You deserve this.”

Then, “I hate you.”

Thirty-Three

Josie worked hard not to recoil when she walked into the interview room on the second floor. Someone had found Dean West a sweatshirt and sweatpants, but the scent of sewage and shit clung to him. It filled the room like a malodorous cloud. There were small particles of something dry and crusty in his hair. There was no telling what they were from, but Josie could guess. Her gag reflex twitched. No wonder he’d rushed home for a shower.

That he was the last known person to see his wife alive and he’d been the one to find her warranted some suspicion on the part of the police. That his clothes had been in the washer when officers responded to the call only heightened that suspicion. The clothing would be tested for latent blood stains, but Josie now had her doubts about the state police lab finding anything. She’d known killers to go to great lengths to deflect attention away from them, stage scenes to make them look innocent, but if Dean had sprayed himself with human waste to throw the police off his scent, it would give a new and disgusting meaning to deception.

He slumped in his chair, head hanging, hands fisted in his lap. He didn’t look up when she walked in or when she pulled out a chair close to him and sat down. Didn’t even look up when she said his name.

“Dean,” she tried again, her tone gentle.

He sniffled and his chest rose abruptly before a sob broke loose.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Josie said. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Another sob racked his body. Then another. Josie waited for them to subside before speaking again. “Carter is waiting to see you.”

At that, his head snapped up. Red blotches covered his face, which was swollen from crying. Tears gathered on his eyelashes. The brokenness and lost little boy she’d seen in him at the cemetery was on full display but exponentially worse. His pain was so deep and so raw that it almost hurt to be in the room with him.

“I need a statement from you,” Josie continued.

“Do I need a lawyer?” he asked, voice scratchy.

“That’s for you to decide,” she answered. “Right now, I just want to find out from you what happened today, ask you some questions.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m going to read you these rights anyway, so you’re aware of them.”

He didn’t protest, just mumbled a yes when she asked if he understood his rights.