My throat tightened, heat rising behind my eyes, but I forced it down. “Colton, I have to speak with the detective again. I’m going, and I think it’s best if you come with me.”
“Of course, I’ll come with you.” Frustrated, he raised his arms in the air, then let them fall in a gesture of defeat. “This is not the way it’s done. Why give police more self-incriminating statements? You don’tneedthis.”
His disapproval was thick and tangible, but I couldn’t let it sway me.
“Yes. Believe me, I do.”
38
The Case File
The next morning, I was up at dawn after a restless, draining night of tossing and turning spent asking myself the same questions, over and over again. How had Claire Donovan killed her husband? Had she had meth ready to spike the eye drops? She didn’t seem like the type, but you never know.
Armed with a steaming cup of coffee, I grabbed the case file and took it out to the patio as daylight began to break. The boys were still asleep, Colton in the guest room and Billy Ray on the sofa, snoring lightly.
Seated on the wicker couch, I set the coffee down and took a deep breath, trying to muster the courage to open the file. I’d been avoiding it for days, but now, I was out of time. We were meeting with the detective at nine, despite Colton’s vocal protests.
The morning chill seeped into my blood, bringing a slight tremor to my fingertips as I opened the file. It was as if I were about to look into an abyss that had the power to snatch me in and drag me down, to bury me alive. Still, I had to know.
The content was neatly organized. Reports were grouped first. The incident report filled in by the first officer on the scene, case notes, thepreliminary autopsy report I’d seen before, and several crime scene–forensics reports.
The witness statements were next, mostly from hotel staff. The last one shocked me—a statement from the sex worker I’d shared a cell with, claiming I’d confessed to the murder. What a lying, vengeful bitch! She’d probably gotten released in exchange for that lie.
Crime scene photos came next. Seeing the first one felt like a punch to my stomach. It showed Winston’s body on a gleaming white marble floor stained with his blood. His hand reached for something above his head. His lips were partly opened, as if he still drew breath. Blood was smeared all over his face, pooling around his eyes. In the distant background, two flute glasses were set on a silver tray, next to a bucket with an unopened bottle of champagne on ice.
He’d set those out for us.
A whimper escaped my lips as I ran my fingers over the photo, wishing I could touch him one last time. I forced myself to turn the page, each image more gruesome than the last. Sobs welled up as I thought,If only I’d gone to him right after my meeting with Claire, he might still be alive.
If I’d told him the truth about why I couldn’t make love to him, maybe we’d still be together.
Wiping away a tear, I turned another page to find surveillance stills. Me, behind the wheel of my rental Beemer, entering the hotel parking lot, visibly distraught. Me, leaving the same hotel, sobbing hard, time-stamped just over fifteen minutesafterClaire had knocked on Winston’s suite door. Claire at the elevators, wearing a white dress almost identical with mine, and white strappy sandals with a wide-brimmed sun hat that kept her face hidden from all the cameras. Her hair was done just like mine that day, in loose waves brought forward over her shoulder. Then Claire in the corridor. Claire knocking on the door of suite number 5003. A blurry close-up of Claire’s diamond ring, its shape disturbingly similar to mine.
And then, things got interesting. The next image showed her unlocking the suite door herself, with a key card. Winston hadn’t opened the door for her. Eager to see more, I turned the page, only to find myself surprised by a distant surveillance shot of Winston proposing to me.
I gasped.
Memories clutched at me like tendrils dragging me into the past. He looked so perfectly happy in the picture, sopainfullyhappy. The next photo showed us standing together, watching the fountains. In the final picture, we were dancing. I stared at that one through a blur of tears, my fingers trembling just above the glossy print.
When the door slid open behind me, I jumped. Colton stood in the doorway, his eyes on the photo of Winston and me. His expression was stern, his blue eyes steely. I quickly closed the file.
“Sorry, I just wanted to see what we had before we visit with the detective.”
“Yeah ...” he said quietly. “Sure. Are you ready?”
“Yes. I’ll just grab my purse and—”
I stopped talking, because he’d already vanished. I took the case file back inside and put it where I’d found it on the living room table, and then I slipped on a pair of sneakers and grabbed my purse.
“Good luck, sis,” Billy Ray said from the sofa, sitting on the edge and rubbing his eyes with his fists like a child. “I’ll clean up while you’re gone. Maybe roast us some ribs.”
I walked over and put a kiss on his forehead before rushing outside.
39
Questions
Colton remained quiet during the drive to the precinct, and I didn’t break that silence. I was increasingly worried that the unresolved tension between us could hurt my defense.
