Page 10 of These White Lies
“Okay.” Brady’s voice is matter-of-fact. “Then we’ll figure out what it means.”
A momentary wave of gratitude sweeps over me, and when he meets my eyes, I know he understands.
I don’t want sympathy or coddling. I just want to solve the problem.
Then I rememberwhyhe understands, and my walls fly back up.
Luke clears his throat, breaking the tension. “Let’s start from the beginning. Tell us about yesterday.”
His questions are routine. Where was I? Who did I see? What time did I get home?
I answer them mechanically, grateful the answers are easy to provide and do my best to ignore the man still leaning against the desk.
My body tenses as I approach the evening.
“I had dinner with a client in Midtown, then went home where I found…” I lick my lips and pause. Keeping my voice even, I continue. “I entered my house through the garage, took off my shoes, poured a glass of wine, and found Keith.”
“You didn’t see him when you first entered the house?” Brady asks.
I shake my head. “My kitchen is open to the living room, but he was…” My throat closes, and I slip one hand under my thigh so they can’t see me dig my nails into my palm. “The sofa he was on has a high back, and he was… slumped. I didn’t see him until I came around the corner.”
Luke nods, and the scratching of his pen across the legal pad seems unnaturally loud. I can feel sweat dampening the nape of my neck, and I resist the urge to lift my hair off it.
Keep it together.
“Did you touch the body?” Brady’s deep voice makes me jump. “Check to see if he was alive?”
“No.”
“Not even to check for a pulse?”
I turn my head to glare at him. “He was obviously dead. The bullet holes and the fact that he was gray were kind of a giveaway.”
Luke’s head comes up at my acerbic tone. “We’re on your side, Elizabeth. We have to know all the details. You know that.”
I clench my teeth. I do know that. I may not practice criminal law, but every attorney knows it’s the details that make the difference.
I give them a clipped nod. “You’re right.”
Luke watches me for another long moment and then flips back a couple of pages on the pad. Before he can ask another question, Brady speaks.
“What about the delay between when your security system recorded your interior garage door opening and when you called the police? What were you doing?”
His voice is calm, but I feel the undercurrent of a challenge. Like he’s testing me. Poking to see where the cracks in my story are.
“I justtoldyou. I didn’t see him right away.”
Brady pushes away from the desk and turns to Luke. “Are they doing the autopsy today? That will give them time of death.” His eyes cut to me, and I’m struck again by his intensity. “You said he was gray?” I nod. “Then unless they are going to claim you killed him and then reentered the house to stage it, they are going to have a hard time proving a timeline.” He swings back to Luke. “Negative GSR?”
Luke nods.
“Of course, it was negative.” I snap. “I couldn’t have gunshot residue on me if I didn’t shoot anyone.”
“You could have washed your hands.”
My mouth falls open. Whose side is he on?
Brady holds up his hands. “I’m just pointing out how the police will think. Can you prove you were wearing the same clothes all day, that you were still wearing them when the police got there?”
