In the Clearing (Tracy Crosswhite #3)(13)

Kins was wondering how Collins could recollect such details if she’d been hit in the head hard enough to cause a wound that would require three stitches. “And Connor opened the door?” he asked.

Angela Collins nodded. “Tim told him to get his stuff, that they were leaving, but by now Connor didn’t want to go with him. He told him no, and that’s when Tim hit him.”

“You saw it?”

“No, but I heard it. Tim has hit Connor before. He slapped him hard across the face. It sounded like a bullwhip.”

Angela Collins started to shake, and Atticus Berkshire placed a comforting hand on her back. Kins slid a box of tissues closer, taking note of the lack of tears. Angela blew her nose, then sipped from a glass of water before continuing. “I’d gotten to my feet, and I got the gun from the box in the closet.”

“You got the gun first, then went down the hall?”

“That’s right. I just wanted to scare him, to make him leave us alone, but when I went down the hall I saw Tim grab Connor.”

“Grabbed him where?”

“He grabbed Connor by the shirt.”

“Where was your son in the room?”

“He’d retreated to the corner. His face was red where Tim had hit him. Connor resisted when Tim tried to get him to go with him.”

“How did he resist?”

“I don’t know. He just did. And that’s when Tim raised his hand again . . . and I pulled the trigger and shot him.”

Again, Kins noted the absence of tears. He’d had friends go through some brutal divorces, but he couldn’t imagine any of them having so little feeling for an ex-spouse that they couldn’t muster any tears—especially one they’d shot. He tried not to look at Berkshire as he asked his next question, certain it would draw an objection. “Your husband had his back to you?”

“Yes,” she said.

Berkshire never looked up.

“How far were you from him?”

“Just a few feet.”

“He didn’t turn around, didn’t hear you?”

“She can’t speculate about what he heard,” Berkshire said, still without raising his head. He flipped his notepad to a clean page and resumed scribbling.

“He gave no indication he heard you?” Kins asked.

“I don’t think he expected that I would get up,” Collins said. “I don’t think he expected me to be there.”

“He didn’t expect you to be behind him?”

“No.”

“You don’t recall him turning his head, shoulders, nothing?” According to the ME’s initial report, the trajectory of the bullet wound was consistent for someone with his back to the gun.

“No.”

“Did you say anything to him to try to get him to stop before shooting him?”

She shook her head. “I was afraid he’d attack me and take the gun. That’s what they taught us in the class, that if you take the gun out you have to be prepared to use it, because if they get it they’ll use it on you.”

“So you intended to shoot him?”

This time Berkshire intervened. “That’s not what she said.”

“I don’t know what I intended. It all happened so fast, and I was afraid for me and for Connor.”

“What happened next?” Kins asked.

“I told Connor to wait in the living room, and I called my father. And he told me—”

“Don’t discuss what I told you,” Berkshire said, still scribbling.

“You called your father before you called 911?”

Angela Collins looked to her father. Berkshire raised his head and nodded. “Yes,” she said.

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“What did you do with the gun?”

“I dropped it on the bed.”

“Did Connor touch it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Has Connor ever touched that gun?”

“I don’t know.”

“You keep it locked in a box in the closet?”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t take shooting lessons with you?”

“No.”

“Did you do anything between the time you shot your husband and when you called your father?” This was the answer Kins was most anxious to hear, how Angela would account for the nearly twenty-one minutes between the time she fired the gun and the time she called 911.

Collins shook her head. “No. I just dropped the gun on the bed. I had to find my cell phone. I couldn’t recall what I’d done with it. I was pretty shaken up. So was Connor.”

“How much time passed between when you shot your husband and when you called your father?”

“If you know,” Berkshire said, perhaps picking up that Kins had information they did not.

“I don’t know.”

“How much time passed before you called 911?”

“I don’t know.”

“An hour?” Kins said, baiting her.

“Oh, no. It was minutes. I called within minutes.”

“By minutes, you mean one or two minutes?” he asked, trying to lock her in.

“One or two. No more than five.”