All the Dangerous Things(89)

I realize now that someone is at the door, knocking. Roscoe is barking, his tail wagging heatedly against the hardwood floor, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to squelch the stinging. Then I stand up from the couch and make my way over.

“That’s enough,” I say, patting down his ears. My chest squeezes as I reach for the door, even though I already know who it is. Even though I’ve been expecting it, expecting him, while I’ve watched the world go by through my window like a time-lapse video for the last two days.

“Detective Dozier,” I say, cracking the door open and registering his familiar frame on my porch: the heavy limbs and hardened eyes. “Good to see you.”

“Yeah, hi,” he says, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops again. “I’ve been out here for five minutes. You didn’t hear me knocking?”

“I was asleep,” I lie, plastering a smile on my face. “Sorry.”

“Mind if I come in?”

“Sure.” I extend my arm out and open the door wider before walking back into the living room and taking a seat on the couch.

“What happened there?”

I follow his gaze and look down at the gauze on my hand. It’s still wrapped tightly around my palm, a little spot of dried blood soaked through the bandage.

“Wineglass,” I say, holding it up. “Cut it pretty bad.”

“Huh.”

He continues to stare, his eyes darting back and forth between my face and my hand.

“So, what can I do for you?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

“There’s been a … development,” he says at last. “In your case. Wanted to come by and tell you myself.”

I look up at him, eyes tight, like I just opened them underwater in a bathtub full of chlorine. I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours in a strange jumble of numbness and nerves, like my body doesn’t quite know how it should respond. I’ve felt this way ever since I stood up slowly in Valerie’s living room, the crunch of glass beneath my shoes and the raggedness of my own breath amplified around me. Ever since I looked down at her lifeless body and those shards from the table, sharp and piercing, like dozens of daggers scattered across the floor.

Ever since I gazed into those wide-open eyes, glassy like porcelain, and the puddle of blood expanding beneath her. The absolute stillness of her chest.

“And what’s that?” I ask, even though I already know.

“I’m sure you’ve seen the news,” he says, taking a step forward. “About the murder of Valerie Sherman.”

“Yes,” I say, nodding. It’s been all over, of course: the latest craze. A young, attractive woman found dead in her home, in a pool of her own blood. “Burglary gone wrong, I heard.”

“That was the original theory,” he says. “Broken coffee table, the house in disarray. But the more we looked at it, the more it seemed off. Staged.”

I clench my fingers. “Staged?”

“Like someone was trying to fake a breakin,” he continues, eying me. “Similar to cracking open a window to try to fake a kidnapping.”

I can feel my heart hammering in my chest, my palms getting slick with sweat.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“As I’m sure you know by now, Valerie was in a relationship with your husband. Had been for quite a while. While you two were still married.”

“Yes,” I say, nodding. “Yes, I’m aware.”

“We found pictures of him in the home,” he says. “Other … belongings that appear to be his.”

I’m quiet, letting him continue. Only speak when spoken to, a trick my father taught me.

“After her death hit the news, we got a phone call from a client of hers,” he says at last. “Valerie was a therapist. She ran a weekly grief counseling group out of the cathedral downtown. Had quite a few regulars.”

I nod.

“According to this client, he saw the two of you interacting on the night of Mason’s vigil.”

I remember that man who had shuffled in, breaking up our conversation before it could even start. The apology in his eyes as he hobbled past, taking a seat. Eying us quietly from the corner, listening.

“Did you know who she was then?” Dozier asks. “Her relationship with your husband?”

“No,” I say, the first authentic thing I’ve said all day. “No, I didn’t. I had no idea.”

“So you just happened to confront your husband’s mistress less than two weeks before she was found dead in her home?”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” I say. “Coincidence, I guess.”

His eyes dart down to my hand again, then back at me.

“Is this why you’re here?” I ask at last, trying to sound exasperated. Trying to act as though the idea of me having anything to do with this is ridiculous, impossible. Too far-fetched to even entertain. “To question me about a murder?”

Dozier stares at me for another second before he lets out a sigh, shaking his head.

“No,” he says at last. “I’m here because that client also gave us a name.”

“A name,” I repeat, trying to hide my confusion. This isn’t how I expected this conversation to go. “Whose name?”