In the Clearing (Tracy Crosswhite #3)(102)

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You also said that your husband hit you with the crystal sculpture.”

“Would you like to see the stitches?”

“No. I’ve seen the photographs,” Kins said.

“Then what’s your point?”

“My point is, if your husband hit you with the sculpture, why aren’t his fingerprints on it?”

This time, Angela was clearly caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“There are no fingerprints on the sculpture. Not his, not yours, not Connor’s.”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“Did you wipe the sculpture down, Angela?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you were protecting Connor.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Connor saw your husband hitting you and tried to stop him, didn’t he? He grabbed the sculpture, and they scuffled. Your husband knocked Connor to the ground, and you used that time to try and escape to the back bedroom. Connor was on the ground and reached out and grabbed your husband’s foot, trying to stop him. He even yanked the shoe off. That’s why Connor’s fingerprints are on your husband’s shoe.”

Angela Collins had begun to shake, as if about to cry. She crossed her arms and looked to a corner of the room. Tracy alternately watched her and Atticus Berkshire’s and Connor’s reactions.

Kins said, “Why don’t you tell us the truth, Angela?”

Tears rolled down Angela’s cheeks. “Connor was just trying to protect me,” she said. “He was just trying to protect me. I don’t think he meant to shoot Tim. He didn’t mean to do it.”

“What?” Connor said softly, and Tracy knew her hunch had been accurate. The one consistent thing about psychopaths was their ego. They never imagined getting caught because they believed they were smarter than everyone.

Atticus Berkshire placed a hand gently on the boy’s shoulder. Not like a lawyer. He was acting like a grandfather.

Connor looked up at his grandfather. “Why is she saying that?”

In the other room, Angela wiped her tears with Kleenex. “After Connor shot Tim, I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I told Connor to drop the gun on the bed and go in the other room. I picked it up so that my fingerprints would also be on it. Then I just started wiping things down. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I just remember my father saying once that the police can use any evidence against you, so I just started wiping everything. When I went back to the living room, Connor had taken the sculpture off the floor and was replacing it on the mantel. I shouted at him to put it back. That’s when I realized his fingerprints would be all over it, so I wiped it down also.”

“She’s lying,” Connor said, looking up at his grandfather, eyes wide and starting to breathe heavily.

“He’s just a boy, Detective,” Angela said, “trying to protect his mother.”

“She’s lying,” Connor said again, louder, starting to cry. “Why is she lying?”

“Why did she shoot your father, Connor?” Tracy asked.

Berkshire remained silent.

“She told me that she had to do it. She said my dad was going to take everything from us, that she was going to get nothing in the divorce. She said he didn’t want anything to do with us, that he had a girlfriend, that he was selling the house and we were going to have to move, that we would have no place to go.”

“How did your mother get her injuries?”

Connor was weeping, shoulders shuddering. Berkshire wrapped an arm around him. “Tell us what happened,” Berkshire said.

“She had me hit her with the sculpture. She told me to hit her in the back of the head so I didn’t leave a scar. I didn’t want to do it, but she told me that I had to, that if I didn’t we’d both go to jail, that they’d say I was an accomplice, that I’d lured my dad into the house under false pretenses.”

“What about the injuries to her ribs? How did your mother get those?”

“She told me to kick her, but I couldn’t because I wasn’t wearing any shoes. She said to put on one of my dad’s shoes, that they could tell from the bruising the type of shoe I was wearing.”

“That’s why your fingerprints are on the shoe?”

“I guess.”

“And that’s why your father’s right shoe was untied. When you put it back on his foot, you forgot to tie it.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t remember.”

Tracy looked to Atticus Berkshire. He had an arm around his grandson’s shoulder but was staring through the glass at his daughter. He looked as though someone had stabbed him in the heart.

“Why is she doing this?” Connor said, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jacket.

“She has a mental illness, Connor,” Berkshire said. “Your mother is sick.”

“Can you help her?” Connor asked.

Berkshire shook his head, solemn.

Tracy and Kins had suspected Berkshire knew, or strongly suspected, not only that his daughter had shot her husband, but that she was at least a sociopath, and likely had a borderline personality disorder. It was a terrible thing for a parent to have to admit about his child, and Berkshire probably would have rigorously defended Angela right up until the moment he’d realized that Angela was willing to sacrifice everyone to save herself, even her own son. Berkshire likely hadn’t agreed to let Angela give a statement. He’d likely had no choice in the matter. After all, he was in a position to know that Angela had always done what Angela wanted to do and got what Angela wanted, or there would be hell to pay. Berkshire was too experienced and competent a defense attorney not to have known that his daughter’s statement was potentially a huge mistake and likely wouldn’t match the evidence.