After sending Richard the address, I catch my reflection in the two-way mirror and run my fingers through my hair.
It’s obvious, the detective is playing a game. Attempting to frazzle me. But I have nothing consequential to the case to hide.
Of course, I was the one to find Matthew. They may not believe me when I say that I wasn’t drinking coffee with him. Maybe I should get a lawyer. If they don’t have a suspect, the last person to see him alive could very well be a prime suspect.
I sit in the chair and wait.
No, I’ll give them thirty minutes. At that point if he hasn’t returned, it’s rude and since they haven’t pressed charges, I’m free to leave.
Twenty-five minutes pass. Footsteps pass in the hallway outside in a regular pat-a-pat-pat. None slow near my door. I check my wrist, pointedly noting the time, just in case someone is on the other side of that mirror.
My mouth is dry and I wish I’d asked for water.
Five more minutes and I’m walking out.
Footsteps sound outside, then slow.
Finally.
Thirty-seven minutes.
He left me in here for thirty-seven minutes.
Thirty-seven minutes of fluorescent flicker, of my own breathing, of the faint murmur of voices beyond the mirror. My phone sits face-down on the table.
Three missed calls from Christine. One from Robert. None from Noah—but he won’t call. He’ll wait. He’ll be ready if I need him.
When the door finally opens, it’s not Lassiter who enters first.
It’s Richard.
My ex-husband stands in the doorway like an avenging angel in a Tom Ford suit, his face carved from granite. Behind him, Lassiter looks almost amused.
“Detective, I’d like a word with my client.”
“Your client?” Lassiter’s eyebrow arches. “Interesting choice of words, Mr. Whitmore.”
“Richard…” My gaze cuts to the detective and I push up from the chair. “I needed you to pick up Stella, not come here.”
“Jessica is picking her up. I needed to be here.”
“But you’re not my lawyer.”
Detective Lassiter looks to Richard. “Is that true?”
“She’s my ex-wife, if you prefer accuracy. Either way, this interview is over unless you’re charging her with something.”
The testosterone in the room is suffocating. These two men, circling each other with me here like a prize neither actually wants.
“Richard,” I start, but he cuts me off with a look I remember from our marriage—the one that says let me handle this.
“Actually,” Lassiter says, settling back into a chair as if Richard’s presence changes nothing, “Mr. Whitmore’s arrival is fortuitous. You’re an attorney, aren’t you, sir? Corporate law, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Your point?”
“My point is that your ex-wife has been less than forthcoming about her relationship with the victim, and I’m wondering if that’s something you were aware of. During your marriage, for instance.”
The room crystallizes into perfect, terrible silence.