Open House(64)

“This one,” Haley said, pointing at the photo. “Who took it?”

“Chris Paxton,” Rappaport said. “Or at least, we got it off his phone. He was intoxicated that night, but the detectives working the case claimed he sounded reasonably reliable a few days later when he told us he’d taken it. We have him here now for questioning, and he’s telling us the same story. He claims he talked to your sister at the party, but that he was never alone with her that night.”

Haley looked closer at the photo. Emma wasn’t smiling, and her eyes looked resigned to having a photo taken. Or maybe it was the fact that Chris was the one taking it that made her uneasy.

Rappaport had told Haley that there were no fingerprints on the knife used to stab Josie, and that because Noah and Chris had helped Josie set up the open house that morning and Brad, Haley, Dean, and Priya had entered into the crime scene, there were fingerprints from all of them in the kitchen. The only other fingerprints were from Chris on a shovel leaning against a shed outside, and the cleaning crew who’d scrubbed the kitchen beforehand, and some from the woman who lived there and was selling the house. The forensics team was still working to determine what they could from the stab wound, but as of now they knew Josie had been stabbed at close to ten forty-five. There were footprints in the kitchen from everyone, including Noah and Chris, but if whoever stabbed Josie had exited the house through the ajar kitchen window, the snow had wiped clean any evidence of their escape. “So what if Noah’s hiding something about my sister—like the fact that he got her pregnant—and wanted to shut Josie up?” Haley ventured.

Rappaport sat back in his chair. His voice was harder when he said, “Or what if Noah knew your fiancé was secretly meeting with Josie, and his jealousy sent him into a rage? Or, what if Brad Aarons was so terrified that Josie would come forward with the pregnancy test and that it would implicate him in Emma’s murder that he attacked Josie? Or maybe his wife did, maybe Priya wanted to protect herself and her son from a husband in prison . . .” Haley’s heart pounded as Rappaport went on. “Chris Paxton has had a few scrapes with the law, so maybe it’s him. Or, here’s an idea: What if something happened between Josie and your fiancé, who were meeting privately, and he tried to attack her for any number of reasons? We have several suspects, Ms. McCullough, each with motive. So as much as I appreciate your theories, what I really want to know is: Do you know your fiancé well enough to know whether he’s capable of violence? Has he ever been violent with you?”

“No,” Haley said, holding his stare. “Never.”

Rappaport shifted his weight and let a minute pass. When he seemed sure Haley wasn’t going to say anything else, or change her story, he said, “He lied to you about the night your sister died.”

“He did,” Haley said. It was true, wasn’t it? Dean had lied about Emma. Haley thought back to the night Dean had found her at that bar, which she now knew wasn’t a happy accident, but which she also didn’t believe was sinister, either. After that night, the way they’d fallen in love had been so slow and careful; it wasn’t forced, and it didn’t feel weighted by the past. She trusted that.

And she trusted that Dean hadn’t hurt someone.

Haley shook her head slowly, marveling at the feeling. Trust. What a slippery thing. Emma had trusted Josie and shouldn’t have; her mother had trusted her father, and he’d cheated; and now Haley was choosing to trust a man who had omitted a truth about the night she lost the person most important to her, based entirely on a feeling. But maybe that’s what trust was, and maybe that was what love was.

“Dean didn’t hurt Josie, I’m sure of it,” Haley said.

“Ms. McCullough,” Rappaport said, his voice hard again, “in your fiancé’s phone, we found texts with Josie that arranged for him to come early to the open house, to meet her there so they could talk.” A pit formed in Haley’s stomach as Rappaport went on. “The texts are very vague, but it would be helpful if you could confirm your fiancé’s whereabouts from ten until ten forty-five yesterday morning.”

“I can,” she said. “Well, I mean, I wasn’t there with him, but he was at the grocery store stocking up on water and food for the storm.”

“The entire time?”

“Yes,” said Haley, “and surely there’s credit card activity?”

“There isn’t,” Rappaport said. “Dean says he paid in cash.” Haley’s heart beat faster. She’d almost never seen Dean pay in cash for anything; he always paid with the credit card that got him miles.

“We’d gotten in an argument that morning. Maybe he was flustered and forgot his credit card.”

“But had cash with him?” Rappaport asked. “Does he keep his credit card separate from his wallet?”

“No,” Haley said. “He doesn’t. But there should still be a record of his purchases.”

“We’re still going through receipts from that morning, but we’ve been by the store with his photo,” Rappaport said, “and no one remembers ringing him up. There’s been a delay in obtaining security camera footage, but we should have it shortly.”

“I have the food and water at home, in our pantry. You can come by and see it,” Haley said, keeping her voice steady.