Page 75 of Trust No One

Gabe moved to rise, but I gestured for him to sit. I set my backpack on the floor and took the chair next to his. Judson sat across from us.

“Agent Blackwood, why’s my client here?” I asked.

Judson didn’t blink. “We believe that he administered a foreign substance into his wife’s wine, causing her to suffer a near-fatal heart attack.”

Hearing the stark charges laid out in a gray, windowless room leveled up the stakes. “What evidence do you have against my client?”

“A search of his truck produced a small packet of white pills in his toolbox, which are now being tested. There were also pictures of Gabe and a woman who wasn’t his wife on his phone. The images suggest an affair.”

I didn’t look at Gabe, but I imagined his head dropping like that of a contrite small child. The clock on the wall ticked. “Who’s the woman?”

“Amy Stocker.”

A breath slowly filled my lungs as I looked at Gabe. I didn’t hide my frustration. Could the man not keep his mouth shut?

Gabe leaned forward. “I was going to tell you.”

I held up my hand, silencing him.

Gabe shook his head. “It’s not what it sounds like—”

“Not yet, Gabe,” I interrupted.

I’d had cops expose damning evidence like a winning poker hand. Many times, I’d expected it, but some had caught me off guard. I’d never taken these games personally. Today, this felt personal.

“I need a minute alone with my client,” I said.

Judson scooped up his legal pad, which contained only the day’s date scribbled in black ink at the top. He moved to the door.

“Shut off the camera,” I said.

“Right,” Judson said. When the door closed, I sat in silence, barely moving until I saw the red light on the camera click off.

I removed a single sheet of paper from my backpack. I’d printed it off at the local Staples on the way to the jailhouse. I laid my pen beside the paper. “Sign this. It authorizes me to act as your attorney.”

He looked at the simply worded statement. “Does it have to be formal?”

“Yes, it does. No shortcuts, Gabe.”

He signed. His slanted signature wasn’t readable beyond the G and D. I tucked the page back in a folder.

I removed a legal pad from my backpack and, like Judson, wrote the date in the top-right corner. “Where did they arrest you?”

“At home. They arrived five minutes after Mom left with Molly for school.”

That was Judson. He wasn’t above a perp walk, but he’d held back for Molly’s sake.

“Are you having an affair with Amy Stocker? You admitted you were flirting with her.”

Endless explanations rushed through his dark gaze. How many times had he mentally practiced explaining this to Maria?

“Yes or no, Gabe?” I asked.

He met my stare. “Yes.”

“How long?”

“Five months.”