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“Is Adrianna safe?” Charleston meanders toward a tiny patch of grass off to the side of his home, hesitantly sitting at a glass table surrounded by wire-frame chairs. An umbrella pokes straight out of the ground, but it’s not open. Its sole function, not being utilized now that we’re in July.
He looks over and watches in silence as Fletch and I select our chairs, then as we sit and sink into the wire. It’ll leave lines along the backs of my thighs when I’m done. Though it’s not entirely uncomfortable.
Just… odd.
“Adrianna?” Charleston repeats. Nervously, he brings his hand up and chews on his thumbnail. “Is she safe?”
“She’s currently in custody.” I let him study me. His criminology education, perhaps running through a list as he attempts to profile and understand me. “Adrianna was apprehended the morning after her husband’s murder.”
“But she wouldn’t have done it.” His eyes well up once more. “She’s gentle, Detectives. She’s the kind who gets picked on, not the one who picks on others.”
“Is that why you like her?” Fletch draws Charleston’s focus across to him. “Because she was kind to you? You’re used to being picked on, aren’t you?”
“She doesn’t hurt other people,” he answers instead, his voice shaking, but resolute. He’s sure, but hell, he’s scared. “She’s kind and pure. She was being bullied inside her own home.”
“That gives her motive,” Fletch pushes. I guess he’s gonna be the ass today. And I’ve been assigned the kind, sensitive, caring one.
“People have been known to snap back against their abusers, Charleston. They suppress and suppress, holding their anger and pain in. But eventually, the pressure gets to be too much and the lid blows off. That’s when people get hurt and good girls get in trouble.”
“Do you think it’s possible?” I question. Gentle. Sweet. Fuck me, I’m not accustomed to being the nice one. “Is it possible William pushed Adrianna too far and she just… blew?”
“No.” Swallowing, he shakes his head. “Adrianna loved her daughters more than she loved anything else. Killing her husband and going to prison is the opposite of what they need.”
“Did you share a lot of private conversations with her?” Fletch questions. His tone is more cutting than I’m used to. His demands, sharper. “Did you meet up outside of class often?”
“Outside—” He gnaws on his thumbnail. “No. Adrianna and I never… we didn’t talk outside of class.”
“Never? Literally ever? You didn’t see her at a coffee shop some time? Or the grocery store?”
“Or the library?” I insert, remembering Adrianna’s finances were not only limited, but they were monitored. “Maybe she was there to study. Or was it a group project, and you guys agreed to meet up to discuss it?”
“No,” Anderson rasps. “We never communicated outside of class. She was busy, Detectives. She had children. And a husband.”
“How do you know?” Fletch demands. “If you never ever spoke outside class, how could you know what she had waiting for her at home?”
“B-because everyone knew. S-sometimes they talked about her on the days she didn’t come to class.”
“Who talked about her?” Fuck my role as the sweet one. I sit forward in my wire chair and hold his stare. “What did they talk about?”
“The other people in our lecture hall. P-professor Jones.” He drops his hand, saving his nail from more mutilation. But he begins picking at a thread in his pants instead. “We weren’t blind, Detective. We saw the way she looked when she was in class. Hell,” he adds, a little more confident in what he’s saying, “we were studying crime. That’s literally why we were there. So when she came in with bruises on her face or hand prints wrapped around her arms, it didn’t take an Ivy League student to figure out what was going on.”
“So you talked about her behind her back?” Fletch demands. “Discussed her private business instead of focusing on your studies?”
“Not a lot,” he explains, defensiveness pushing his shoulders up. “It wasn’t, like, a whole thing where we spent the entire two hours talking about her. It was just sometimes when she didn’t turn up and someone would make a comment that she wasn’t there. Someone else would chime in and mention her newest bruises or whatever. A different student might comment that they saw her and her kids at the grocery store. Which is how we all, collectively, got a picture of her life outside that lecture hall. She didn’t socialize, Detective. She just…” He swallows. “She just turned up and did her work.”
“Maybe you followed her home,” Fletch tosses in. A grenade inside a bunker. Which results in exactly what one would expect. Surprise. Then fear. Anderson startles in his chair and straightens his spine. “You wanted to protect her. You thought she was sweet and deserved better. You and your classmates gossip about her behind her back, so you know what kind of life she leads at home.”
“I didn’t follow her home. I’ve never?—”
“She works so damn hard to get her education,” he pushes on. “Busts her ass. And in return, William busts her face.”
“He shouldn’t do that.” Anderson drops his gaze and looks down into his lap. “He shouldn’t hurt her like that.”
“So maybe you got sick of it in the end. You were fed up with watching someone so sweet and innocent constantly being kicked while they were down.”
He shakes his head in denial. His entire body, quivering with fear. “No.”
“She didn’t turn up to class Wednesday night,” Fletch pushes. “And that was on the back of a brand-new black eye she was sporting Monday night.” He pauses and points up to his eye, as though to illustrate his meaning. “You were angry, Charleston. So you went to her home. And maybe you knocked on the door.”
