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The elevator stopped on the first floor. Roy got out. “You coming?”

“I’m gonna head home,” I said. “It’s almost five.”

Roy looked at his watch, surprised. “Well, see you tomorrow then.”

“It’s Friday,” I said. “You really need to get out of this building more, Roy.”

He winked at me as the elevator doors closed. My phone rang. It was Lock. I felt like a liar. A fraud. I’d spent the whole day speculating whether my husband was connected to a mass murderer. Because of a painting. Because of a piece of fabric. Because I had projected my insecurities onto a crime victim. How could I pretend anymore?

I answered. “Hey. I’m just leaving the office. Are you working late tonight?” Did I want him to?

“Not too late. I should be wrapped up here in about twenty minutes. I’ll be right behind you. Do you want to cook or go out?”

Something lightened inside me. This was normal. This was me and Lock. My husband. The man I loved. And we were deciding what to do for dinner. Maybe avoiding him had been the problem. He grounded me.

The elevator doors opened again and I stepped out. The more time I spent away from him, the easier it was for me to give in to my destructive, self-sabotaging thought patterns. When I was with him, the world made sense.

“How about a compromise? We order in. I’m not in the mood to cook. And I’m definitely not in the mood to leave the house once I kick my shoes off,” I said.

“Sounds perfect. Any preferences?”

I pulled my key fob out and hit the button to unlock my doors. Italian? Chinese? Maybe a good old-fashioned pizza? I walked around to the driver’s side and froze.

“Oh my God!” I shouted.

“Mina? What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

I let the phone drop to the ground. I could still hear Lock shouting questions. It took me a second to process what I was seeing. This was my car. My parking spot. But my car was covered in red. Blood? I felt bile rise in my throat. The blood was everywhere. All over the windshield. All over the hood. Dripping down the side windows. And a single word was scrawled across the rear window.

COMPLICIT

TWENTY

Sometimes, I forgot how tall Lock really was. Though Roy Dennison had three inches on him, Lock managed to take up the space between them.

“You don’t have cameras here? It isn’t just Mina. Every judge in the county parks here.”

It felt like he got here in less than a minute. Had he been here already? A tsunami of alpha-male protectiveness, Lock charged Roy, demanding answers.

“Lock,” I said. “This isn’t Roy’s fault.”

“Yes, it is,” Lock boomed. “The Sheriff’s Department is in charge of courthouse and county security. There should be deputies patrolling this parking structure as long as county employees are in these buildings.”

“You have to let us do our job, Lock,” Roy said. Lock bristled. He and Roy had met a few times, but they weren’t on a first-name basis by any means.

Lock put an arm around me. He was all coiled strength, and rigid muscles. He looked ready to punch a fist through the concrete wall. A trait that always made me feel safe. Protected. But what would it be like to be on the receiving end of it?

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Lock asked. “You never saw anyone?”

I’d given my statement to Roy while Lock stood by. He stayed quiet until I finished, then erupted.

“No one,” I reiterated. “There was nobody out here when I walked to my car. I didn’t hear anything.”

“What about the north elevators?” Roy asked. “Did you hear them open or close?”

“No,” I said. “I came from the south ones. I came down directly from the conference room.”

“And you hadn’t been to your car since you parked here this morning?”