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“How many times do I have to say it?”
“Why don’t I take that tray in for you?”
She let him because she wanted to sit down. She wanted to sit and get this all over with.
Beck picked it up as soon as they walked in.
“You kept your car fob in the house. In plain view?”
“Yes, Jesus.” The reasonable part of her knew they did a job, but the rest of her just didn’t care.
“I said all this, too. I kept it in that bowl by the door. Come in, put it in the bowl, always know where it is. He thought the house would be empty—that’s what the detectives think.”
Struggling, she pressed her fingers to her eyes.
Just get it over with.
“He broke in, killed Nina because she was here. He took her jewelry and mine—not worth much—I had a hundred in cash rolled in a sock, he got that and whatever cash she had in her drawer. It wouldn’t have been much. He took her MacBook and her phone. No point in taking my laptop, since it broke when he broke her. It was five years old anyway, and not worth much. Then he took the fob out of the bowl and drove away in my car.
“I don’t know anything else.”
Beck opened a slim briefcase, took out a photo. “Do you recognize this man?”
His hair was longer and sort of carelessly, stylishly windblown, but otherwise…
The headache rolled nausea into her belly.
“Luke Hudson.”
“How do you know him?”
“He came into the bar where I work nights, about three weeks ago. The Next Round. He came into the bar. I tend bar. He wanted a local draft, struck up a conversation. He said he was in the area for a few months. IT work, smart homes and offices.”
Because her hands shook, she slid them under her thighs. “But that’s not true, is it? Or you wouldn’t be here. Did he do this? I don’t understand how that could be. Did he do this?”
“Was he ever in here?” Morrison, ignoring the question, pushed on. “In your house?”
“Once. We had dinner. Me, Nina, him, and Sam—Nina was seeing Sam Nichols. We had them over for dinner the… the… the…”
She paused, pressed her lips together. “The Monday night before she died. My night off.”
Beck wrote something in a notebook. Morgan began to rub her hands over arms that had chilled.
“I… He came into the bar a few times. Had local drafts, some food, conversation. He was friendly, but not pushy. He talked with some of the other customers. After he came in a few times, he asked me to dinner. Casual, pizza, and I decided why not? I met him at Luigi’s and we had pizza and wine.”
“Did you have a sexual relationship?”
She looked at Beck. “No. He came into the bar a handful of times. We had pizza one night, and Nina and I decided to have him and Sam to dinner—Monday’s my night off. I said that already,” she remembered. “I have Sunday and Monday nights off unless we’re short-staffed at the bar.”
“So he came to dinner,” Morrison prompted.
“Yes.” She tucked her hands under her thighs again. “We cooked—the first time either of us made a real dinner. And he had a change in his schedule, he said, and had to do a job in Baltimore, two or three days. He texted me a few times while he was gone.”
“Did he leave the room where you were, the three of you were, at any point?”
“No, we…” She pulled her hands free, pressed her fingers to her eyes again. Now the headache lived there, too.
“Yes. Yes, he did. He asked if he could wash up. The half bath is down there.” She gestured. “When he came back, he apologized for taking so long, said he got a call he had to take.”
