“Can you think of anyone who had a problem with your aunt?” Rourke asked him. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill her?”
Harry frowned. “What do you mean? Weknowwho killed her. It was that woman—the woman who delivers the packages.”
Rourke didn’t bother explaining that they’d already spoken to Lenora. A funny woman. She still lived with her parents. According to her neighbors, she was very quiet, very responsible, devoted to her job and her routines. Possibly slightlytoodevoted to her routines. In any case, not the profile of a killer.
Besides, as Rourke had expected, she had arrived on scene only after Anne was killed.
“At this point, we have to consider all the possibilities,” Rourke said soothingly. At that moment, she had teams out collecting security footage from all the neighboring houses. Maybe, after all, it was a break-in, albeit an odd one. If so, they should find evidence of someone approaching—and fleeing—the house. “Did your aunt mention tensions with anyone?”
“No,” Harry said. “I told you. Everyone loved my aunt.”
Rourke let that statement settle into silence before switching tactics. “What about you?” she asked brightly. “Did you love your aunt? Were there any problems between you?”
Harry drew in a long slurp of his iced coffee. He seemed to find the question amusing. “I know what you’re getting at,” he said. “I’ve seen all those true-crime docs. Someone in the family is usually the first suspect. Isn’t that right?” Rourke didn’t bother correcting him: Actually, someone in the familywas most often the perpetrator. Harry went on. “She was like a mother to me. She had no children of her own, you know.”
They did know. They also knew that Harrydidin fact now stand to inherit the bulk of his aunt’s estate. That had been no great mystery to uncover; one of the deputies had found a copy of the will in Anne’s nightstand.
“Were you aware of the provisions of your aunt’s will?” Rourke asked him, trying to keep the edge out of her voice. Just because he stood to benefit from his aunt’s death didn’t mean he’d killed her.
And yet ... that discomfort in her stomach was still there. A writhing, which gave a lash every time Harry looked at her.
She didn’t like him, sure. But she also didn’t trust him.
He gave her a toothy smile. “Of course. We talked about it many times. I was her favorite nephew. Heronlynephew, technically. But also her favorite.” Then, in an altered voice: “You don’t think I would hurt my aunt over money, do you?”
Increasingly, that was exactly what shedidthink. They were digging into Harry’s finances now, and so far, the picture wasn’t pretty. He’d been evicted from his New York City apartment for failing to pay rent. His credit score was in the crapper. And his Instagram account proved, at the same time, that he was a man who liked to live lavishly—dinners out, vacations in Nantucket, weekend trips to Miami. All of it added up to a powerful motive for murder.
“I don’t know,” Rourke said neutrally. “Would you?”
Harry let out a long, aggrieved sigh. “Look,” he said, “I’ve told you what I know. I slept in. I was hungover as hell. I came down to find that woman in my living room and my aunt dead. You should bringherin here, askherquestions.”
“We don’t have any reason to suspect the delivery woman of involvement,” Rourke said. “Most likely, your aunt was killed at least an hour before she arrived.”
“When I was dead asleep,” Harry said triumphantly, as if he’d just proved his alibi.
When you were alone in the house with her,Rourke nearly added.
As if Harry knew what she was thinking, he said, “Then someone must have broken in. There are always people coming and going from the beach. My aunt and I used to joke about it. She said it was better than a live stream.”
“But you said nothing was missing from the house,” Rourke pointed out. “Seems pretty sloppy for a break-in.”
“Well, maybe someone meant to kill her. Maybe she was targeted.”
“Even though everybody loved her?”
Harry’s face curdled into a sneer. “You’re the detective,” he said. “Youfigure it out.”
He stood up, still glaring at her, letting his shadow fall across the table, giving Rourke the chance to appreciate his size. He was tall—probably over six feet. Not in great shape.
But strong enough.
Something moved under the surface of Rourke’s imagination. A ripple. A Harry-shaped shadow, creeping down the stairs with something in his hand. Something heavy, dense, iron, perhaps.
In her mind, Anne turned with her hand on the door to greet her nephew. The first blow only glanced off her shoulder. Now she was screaming, grabbing at the side table, accidentally upending the vase of flowers as he dragged her backward into the living room.
Bloody, violent. Over very quickly. And now, he had the house to himself.
Once she saw it in her mind, she couldn’t unsee it. She shook her head, frustrated.