Page 39 of The Perfect Divorce

“Jesus,” I groan, pushing out a heavy sigh as I take a step toward him. “You know what you’re gonna do now? You’re gonna walk up and down every hallway on this floor, and you are going to ask every single person who isn’t confined to a bed if they might have seen something while you were on your porcelain throne. And then you’re going to do the same with everyone working at the front desk and anyone who has come in or out of this building in the past three hours.”

“Sir, that’s gonna take...”

“All night, I’m aware. So, you’d better get started.” I stare at Deputy Morrow, the fire in my eyes burning right through him until he leaves the room.

I turn back to face the doctor. “What kind of surveillance do you have in the building?”

He stammers but regains his composure almost instantly. Like me, he’s in a line of work where one mistake can be the difference between life and death.

“We have cameras in every hallway, elevator, at every floor station and every exit, and there are several positioned at the front desk and in the waiting area. We also have surveillance covering the parking lots,” Dr. Boyd says.

“Perfect. Could you please have your security or IT person, whoever oversees the cameras, come meet us? I’ll need all footage pulled from this evening.”

“Of course. I’ll go call him now.” He leaves the room with much more urgency than my deputy.

“Who could have done this?” Olson asks, glancing at the bloodstained sheet covering Ryan’s body.

“Anyone,” I say, shaking my head. “I know you weren’t at the press conference, but people were furious. You should have seen them. It may as well have been a mob with pitchforks and torches. They wanted blood.” I point to the bed. “They wantedhisblood.”

She furrows her brow. “I don’t think it’s that simple, Marcus. Sure, they’re angry, but this is beyond that.” Olson gestures to the former sheriff. “Whoever did this is someone who was willing to risk it all. They knew Stevens was guarded, but they came in here anyway, and they slit his throat without any hesitation. This isn’t some nameless member of the public who was so enraged they decided to take justice into their own hands. This was personal.”

I know she’s most likely right, even though I don’t want her to be. Her theory is much more dangerous than mine. If this person targeted Ryan because of something he did in the past, then anyone involved in that case or incident could also be in danger.

“If your theory’s correct, who would be pushed far enough to do this?” I ask.

“What about the family of Jackie Clarke, the woman Stevens hit and killed? Do we know anything about them? Any ex-cons or former military? Because whoever did this was very skilled.”

Again, that’s a good theory. If someone had killed a family member of mine, I would certainly want them dead. But what Olson doesn’t know is all the other filth and dirt from Ryan’s past. I don’t even know it myself. If the average person sat down and tried to put together a list of people who would be willing to slit their throat, 99 percent of them would just have a blank sheet of paper. But I’m sure Ryan would have had no problem compiling an extensive list. The question is, whose name would be at the top?

TWENTY-FOUR

SARAH MORGAN

News vans line both sides of the road, and as soon as they see my vehicle, reporters and cameramen scatter, ready to get their shot, hoping I’ll stop to answer questions. I lock eyes with a few of them as I turn slowly into the long driveway that curves and cuts through the woods, giving them no view of my house. Even on a Sunday morning, they’re out here trying to get whatever scraps they can for their story. They weren’t here when I left an hour or so ago, and aside from the run-in at the office, I’ve been able to avoid them for the most part. The media are like freshly hatched lake flies, an overwhelming nuisance that swarms all at once, but they only live a week or two, just like a news story. I can’t wait for this all to be over with, for them to move on to the next salacious news piece, one that doesn’t involve me.

I kill the engine and exit the vehicle, grabbing two bags of groceries from the back seat. I had a few errands to run in town and figured I should take care of that before Summer got home. Rays of sunshine splice through the branches that create a sort of canopy over the house. I can hear the small waves from the lake lapping against the shore. A loon wails a haunting and beautiful call from somewhere in the distance, its sound carrying effortlessly across the water.

Inside, I unpack the groceries and steal a glimpse out the kitchen window to check on Alejandro. He swipes a brush along the fresh deck boards, coating them in a stain the shade of cedar. I left the sliding door unlocked while I was gone, in case he needed to use the restroom, but I’m not sure if he even came inside or not. I survey the living room and kitchen, checking to see if anything is out of place, moved even a centimeter. My eyes go to the rug lying in front of the door that leads to the deck. The corner of it is kicked up. He was inside.

I make my way to the bathroom and flick on the light. My fingers graze the basin of the sink, testing for dampness. It’s bone dry. The toilet seat is down. The hand towel hung on the matte black ring is still perfectly in place. I catch my green eyes in the mirror and stare back at them, finding her in the reflection. Letting out a heavy sigh, I leave her be and return to the kitchen.

With the toe of my shoe, I flip the corner of the rug flat and observe Alejandro through the glass door. He’s kneeling, one hand on the deck to hold himself upright. His back is toward me, so he doesn’t notice my presence. Through his white T-shirt, I can see the muscles in his back tense up, and then he pulls his hand from the deck, quickly bringing it to his line of sight. Alejandro drops the stain brush and sits up on his knees, craning his neck forward as though he’s inspecting something.

I slide open the door and pop my head out. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just got a splinter,” he says, holding up his hand.

“Come inside then. I’ll help you get it out.”

“It’s fine. I’ll take care of it later.”

“It could get infected or wedged into your skin even farther,” I argue.

He sighs and cocks his head. “All right.” Alejandro gets to his feet and follows me inside.

He sits at the table while I retrieve a small sewing kit from the hall closet. When I reenter the kitchen, I notice he’s scanning his surroundings, taking it all in.

“Got it,” I say. His gaze snaps back to me, and he tightly smiles.

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