Page 12 of Darkwater Lane

I’m already wound up, ready to argue with her when she says, “Because he’s dead.”

I blink at her. That was not at all what I’d expected her to say. “Oh.”

“He was murdered a few weeks ago,” she continues. “Quite brutally.”

I notice both Wren and Indiri eyeing me closely, watching my reaction. I don’t typically take satisfaction in other people’s deaths, especially not their suffering, but I can’t say I’m sorry the guy is dead. It’s one less threat I have to worry about.

I clasp my fingers together on the table. “As much as I appreciate you two delivering the news in person, I assume that’s not what you’re here for.”

Indiri’s mouth twitches with the hint of a smile. Between the two of them, he’s definitely the good cop. “It isn’t. I’m afraid we havesome questions for you, specifically about your whereabouts over the past several weeks.”

That surprises me. Mostly because if I’d wanted to kill the guy, I’d have done it after he sent that first email. “You think I had something to do with this guy’s murder?”

“Right now, we’re just gathering information,” Indiri says, his posture still relaxed. I glance toward Special Agent Wren. She’s wound so tight I’m shocked she hasn’t snapped. They’re clearly here out of more than mere curiosity. They could have assuaged that with a phone call.

“If you give me exact dates, I’ll check my calendar,” I tell them, pulling my phone from my pocket.

They give me a range of several days, which tells me they haven’t been able to pinpoint a time of death. I’m guessing that means they didn’t find the body immediately.

“Where was he found?” I ask.

“In his house,” Wren informs me. So, his body wasn’t disposed of or dumped.

“I meant, where in the country was he found,” I clarify.

She clears her throat. “Texas. A little town down near the border, close to New Mexico.”

I scroll through my calendar. “Let’s see. Two weeks ago. Tuesday morning, I took my car in for an oil change. That should be easy to verify. That afternoon, I picked my son up from equine therapy. I can give you the name and number of the barn if you need to verify that. I placed a FaceTime call to my friend Kez later that night. She’s a police detective over in Norton, so I leave it up to you whether you take her word on that.”

I flip over to my credit card app and scan the recent activity. “Wednesday morning, I got coffee at a shop around the corner—I’m a regular, so they’ll remember me. That evening, we went to Dolce Vida for dinner as a family—the server will remember us, and if not, we had to make a reservation. And Thursday, I ranseveral errands throughout the day and can find the receipts if need be.” I look up at the two of them. “Is that sufficient?”

They exchange glances. “And in between those times?” Wren presses.

I give her a polite smile. “I assume you’ve already checked flight manifests and didn’t find any trace of me, so I couldn’t have flown down to wherever this guy lived. Train service would have been time-consuming and I would have had to deal with finding a rental car or some other transportation once I arrived at the nearest city. You’ll have checked those databases too. Which leaves driving. I’m guessing it’s about a ten-hour trip, probably longer. But let’s assume half that—even then, we’re still talking a minimum of twelve hours round trip. So, no, I don’t have to fill in the gaps in my calendar. I only need to give you enough to prove that I didn’t have twelve hours to drive down and murder this asshole.”

Special Agent Indiri’s mouth twitches again in a suppressed smile. Wren looks like she’s about to press for more, but he says, “You’re right. That should be sufficient, and if it isn’t, we’ll let you know.”

Neither one of them makes any moves to stand, which means they have more questions. I can already guess what they are. “To save you the trouble, I can also tell you that Sam was flying cargo that week. The FAA will have records of all his flights. Though I’m sure you’re already aware of that or you wouldn’t be here talking to me.”

This time, Indiri actually smiles. “That is also true.”

I nod. “Now that we have the matter of my involvement—or lack thereof—settled, how about you fill me in on the real reason you’re here? If this were simply a murder investigation, the local cops would be handling it, not the FBI. Plus, you mentioned that Melvin Royal was involved. So far, I don’t see any connection, other than this Cooper Kuntz guy was obviously not a fan of his.”

“Right again,” Indiri says. “We found something of Melvin’s at the crime scene.”

I frown. Not long after he was found guilty, some of Melvin’s possessions ended up on the black market—items of clothing, letters he’d written, even strands of his hair at one point. Why anyone found value in that kind of thing, I had no idea. It disgusted me to even think about. “What was it?” I ask, not really sure I want to know.

“A shard of bone,” he says evenly.

“Bone?” I ask, not sure I heard him correctly. “Like human bones?Hisbone?”

Indiri gestures at Wren, who slides a photo out of the folder and passes it to me. It’s a forensic picture of a piece of bone lying on a blue cloth. The rulers beside it indicate it’s about an inch long and narrow.

“It’s the middle phalange of his index finger,” she tells me. “From his hand. Specifically, his left hand.”

I stare at it. Disgust roils in my stomach when I think about how this used to be a part of Melvin—that it was inside him. A part of his hand that he used to torture women before slipping into bed with me at night and sliding it down my body.

I shove the photo away, bile burning the back of my throat. “How the hell did this guy end up with one of Melvin’s bones?” It’s not like Melvin could have cut off his finger and sold it. If he had, I would have noticed when he kidnapped me with the intent to torture me on a live broadcast.

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