Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(14)

“Three days to say hi. Three weeks to get her to say hi back. She was shy even then.”

“Been together ever since?”

“Yes.”

“What brought you to New Hampshire?”

Thomas glanced up at them. His eyes were bloodshot, heavily shadowed. A man who hadn’t been sleeping well at night, Wyatt would guess, and that was before this. Wife troubles, work troubles, kid troubles? Again, Wyatt felt buzzed by the possibilities.

But Thomas merely shrugged. “Why not? It’s a good state. Mountains to hike, lakes to swim. Plus no sales or income tax. What’s not to love?”

“And your current job?” Wyatt asked, keeping with the slow-and-easy approach.

“Still in set design, only now I’m self-employed. I design and manufacture specific props, set pieces that are harder to find. Nicky helps—she does the fine-tuning, painting, cosmetics, that sort of thing.”

“Shouldn’t you be in LA?” Kevin asked. “Or New York? Someplace like that?”

Thomas shook his head. “Not necessary. Films are shot most anyplace, especially if the state or town is offering tax incentives. New Orleans, Seattle, Nashville, even Boston, lots of production work around here. And I don’t need to be on site. I have my contacts from the old days. Now the set guys come to me with what they need. I design it, build it, ship it. Done.”

“And Nicky, too?” Wyatt repeated.

“Yeah. Like I said.”

“Where was your wife last night, Mr. Frank?”

Thomas shifted uncomfortably, no longer meeting their gazes. “I thought at home,” he said, voice already rough. “Last I saw, she was asleep on the sofa.”

Kevin and Wyatt exchanged a glance. Time to start unspooling the rope, Wyatt thought.

“What time was that?” Wyatt asked, voice still perfectly polite.

“I don’t know. Eight, nine P.M.”

Wyatt regarded the man closely. “Little early to be down for the night,” he commented, as Kevin joined the fray:

“Last you saw—”

Thomas slammed down his coffee cup. “It’s not her fault!”

Neither detective said a word.

“I mean, we were fine. Everything was fine. Happy couple, happy life. Except then, six months ago, Nicky fell down the stairs. Was doing laundry, I don’t know. I found her passed out cold on the basement floor. Took her to the emergency room, where she was diagnosed with a mild concussion. No big deal, you think. Rest and recuperate. Except she had difficulty sleeping after that. And would lash out, no good reason. Headaches, fatigue, difficulty focusing. I did a little reading. Symptoms were consistent with someone recovering from a concussion. Told myself—and her—to be patient. Just a little more time. Except then just a few months later, I found Nicky sprawled on the front porch. She’d been walking out the door, she thought. Except she must’ve tripped or something. Bad news, she hit her head again. Two concussions, three months.”

The husband stared at them. Wyatt and Kevin returned his look, expressions stonier this time, allowing him to see their skepticism, feel the heat.

“Post-concussive syndrome,” the man bit out. “My wife isn’t a drunk. At least she didn’t used to be. She’s not violent either. At least she didn’t used to be.” He turned his head slightly, revealing the shadow of a bruise along the man’s jaw. “But the falls, multiple brain traumas . . . The neurologist tells me each subsequent injury has an exponential effect. I don’t really understand it. I just know my wife . . . She’s not herself these days.”

“So you left her unattended yesterday evening,” Wyatt murmured.

“I went to my work shed! We have a separate building, on the rear of our property, that houses all my tools, equipment. That’s where I work, and for the love of God . . . I’ve been tending Nicky, most days, all days. Now I’m behind. Because that’s what happens when you have a sick spouse. You get behind on work while having even more bills to pay. She falls asleep, I bolt out the door. I’m not saying it’s a good thing. I’m saying it’s what I have to do to hold things together. Docs want her in a stable environment on a normal routine. Losing our house right now because I can’t pay the mortgage doesn’t accomplish either of those things.”

“Where’d she get the scotch?” Kevin drawled.

Thomas Frank flushed. He picked his coffee cup back up, took a sip. “I don’t know.”

“Car keys?” Wyatt piled on.

“In the basket by the front door. It’s not like she’d been banned from driving; the docs just don’t recommend it.”

“Probably don’t recommend her drinking either.” Kevin again.

Thin lips. “No. They don’t.”

“But she does.” Wyatt, jerking the man’s attention back to him. Because now was the time; he could feel it. Thomas Frank was agitated and angry. Fractured and unfocused.

And he’d just given him most of his and his wife’s life story, without ever mentioning a little girl name Vero.

Wyatt leaned forward. He stared deep into Thomas’s eyes, as if searching for the truth, or maybe just trying to figure out if the man really was as big an * as they suspected. From the other side, Kevin did the same.

Closing in. Dropping the hammer.