Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(42)

“I’m here as a witness,” I tell her. “For the Marlene Crockett case.”

The key-clicking stops. She spins her chair to face me, studies me with care, and then rolls forward to reach a phone. “What’s your name, sugar?”

I resist the urge to tell her not to give me endearments when we just met. “Gwen Proctor.”

She recognizes the name. I see the slow blink, the sudden shift in expression. Like a castle gate coming down. “Have a seat,” she says. “I’ll let the detective know.”

I claim one of the wooden chairs, which look marginally more comfortably than the bench. She murmurs things I can’t catch into the phone, hangs up, and gives me an entirely insincere smile. “Just one minute,” she says, and goes back to her computer. If she’s got email on that thing, she’ll no doubt be spreading word of my arrival everywhere.

I’m glad I have the numbers of lawyers on my arms. I have no idea what might happen in here; they probably won’t charge me with a crime. But I’ve learned the hard way that being innocent doesn’t mean handcuffs don’t go on.

It’s something less than a minute, all in all, until a solid old wooden door in the back wall opens, and a man comes out who has to actually stoop to pass underneath the top of the frame. I stare, which I imagine isn’t an unusual thing, because he’s got to be approaching NBA heights . . . six foot seven, nine, maybe even more. Thin, too, with long legs; he must have his suits custom-tailored, because this one fits him well. It’s light gray, a concession to the heavy heat.

“Ms. Proctor? I’m Detective Fairweather, Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.” He holds out a hand as I get up, and I feel miniaturized when we shake. He’s careful and professional about it. His skin’s the kind of pink that doesn’t take to the summers around here, and his hair’s Nordic blond, cut military short. “How are you, ma’am? I hope that drive wasn’t too difficult.”

I have to give him points for using Ms. instead of Mrs. or Miss; I usually have to correct people at least once. His accent is definitely southern, but not so much Tennessee. Virginia? Hard to say.

He holds the door open for me and gestures me inside. I don’t immediately obey. “So you’re not actually with the Wolfhunter police?” I ask him.

“We’re working together on this,” he says. “I’m the lead investigator. After you, ma’am.”

He’s painfully polite. I suppose that should comfort me, but instead it makes me warier. But I don’t have much choice; he’s not going to let me walk out of here without a conversation. I go past him and into a narrow, dim hallway. It’s as scuffed and beaten up as I would have expected. He leads me into a room off to one side and shuts the door behind me.

Typical interrogation room. I settle on the side that I know he wants me to take, the one that captures me best on video. Might as well be cooperative when it’s easy.

Detective Fairweather takes the chair on the opposite side of the small table and settles on it like he’s afraid it might break. “Ma’am, you don’t mind if I record our conversation, do you? It’s for my records.” He puts his cell phone down. It’s entirely unnecessary, unless the camera isn’t working properly . . . or he’s afraid Wolfhunter PD might not be entirely reliable. I nod in reply, and he presses the red button on the screen. “Okay, so just for the record, ma’am, please state your name.”

“I’m Gwen Proctor.”

“Originally Gina Royal? Wife of Melvin Royal?” Cheap shot, Detective.

“That’s my former married name, yes.”

“And just for context, ma’am, where is it you live?”

“On Stillhouse Lake, near Norton.”

“In Tennessee.”

“Yes.”

“And do you live there by yourself?”

“No,” I say. “I have two children, Lanny and Connor. And Sam Cade also lives there.”

“Sam Cade.” He leans forward now, resting his long forearms on the table and lacing his fingers together. “And lives there how, exactly?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question.” I do, perfectly. But I want him to ask straight out.

“Is he renting a room from you, or . . .”

“We share a bedroom,” I tell him. I suppose a more normal thing to say would have been We’re lovers or We’re partners, but even now, I hate to push it that far. Dumb, I suppose.

It doesn’t matter how carefully I parse my words, because the detective gets exactly where I’m going. “Well, that’s a little unusual, isn’t it? Considering your ex-husband brutally murdered his sister?”

I let that sit for a long few seconds. My silence has thorns. When I do answer, my tone’s gone sharp and, against my will, defensive. “How exactly is any of this relevant to what I heard on the phone?”

Fairweather holds up his hands in either surrender or apology. “Apologies. Just background questions.” No. That was a deliberate ploy to throw me off-balance, and we both know it. “Okay, let’s go ahead and move on. I need to ask you some questions about Marlene and Vee Crockett.”

“Don’t know them,” I say. Absolutely true. I force myself to relax. Body language speaks as loudly as words, especially on camera.