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“Why didn’t you tell us you attend those classes, Adrianna?” I open the file atop my pile and place her transcript on the table between us. “Criminology. Of all the classes you could attend, this one makes you look the guiltiest.”
“That’s why I didn’t say anything.” Finally, her tears spill over and slide along her cheeks. “You’re already so sure I hurt my husband. Admitting to studying criminal behaviors would make things so much worse.”
“Lying to the cops,” I growl, my voice sharp enough to make the woman jump, “omitting information when we’re asking for everything relevant, is what makes things worse. You look guilty, Adrianna!”
“I didn’t hurt him,” she cries, her shoulders and chest bouncing with her grief. “I swear, I was asleep.”
“You’re wearing his bruises on your face,” Fletch inserts, his tone gentler than mine. “I see the shape of his knuckles around your eye. His fingerprints are on your arm.”
“He hurt me,” she pleads. “Too often, he hurt me. But I didn’t stab my husband.”
“You wanted a better life,” I join in. “You didn’t want to just be a mom. A homemaker. Not just a high school graduate with nothing else to show for your life. So you started taking classes with plans to do something amazing with your life. The only downside was the man you had to come home to.”
“I was studying so I could become someone,” she grits out. “So I could show my daughters that their lives don’t stop when they become a wife and mother. I was showing them what an independent woman could do.”
“By murdering their father?”
“I didn’t murder him!” she explodes, tears and snot dribbling to the top of her lips. “I was getting an education.”
“An education on how to kill someone,” Fletch amends. “Come on, Adrianna. You have to admit that looks bad.”
“That same education would have taught me what not to do, right? Like…” She grabs her transcript and points at her straight A’s. “I’m smart, Detective. I work hard. I’ve spent a year studying criminal behavior, so I know stabbing my husband isn’t going to look good for me. I know claiming I slept through the whole thing and being interviewed by the cops with his blood on my pyjamas, isn’t going to go down well.”
“So why’d you do those things?” I demand. “Why be so dumb?”
“Because I didn’t kill him! I was asleep, Detective. I really, truly was. I’d had about four hours the night before. Four broken hours. My youngest daughter has been sick and congested. My older daughter is dealing with self-esteem issues and school bullies. She lives with her most persistent bully, and it is my job, every single day, to shield them as best I can. My plate has been full,” she growls, “trying to get my children through with as little trauma as possible. Wednesday night, William came home late. I missed my class, but it wasn’t the first, and wouldn’t have been the last. I was tired anyway, so I accepted it, didn’t give him the satisfaction of an argument about it, and then I went to bed with my babies.”
“Which bed did you sleep in?” I press. “Which room?”
“I started in Kiera’s bed,” she answers. So certain. So sure. “We listened to a free audiobook on my phone until she conked out.”
“Which was what time?” Fletch asks. “What time did you switch beds?”
“Just after eight,” she repeats. “Kiera passed out, I left the story running. Katie was already asleep in her bed. So I went to the kitchen, drank a little Benadryl to help me fall back asleep, and then I went to bed.”
“You said you were already tired?” I circle in and catch her in her lie. “Why take a sleep aid if you’re already exhausted?”
“Because there’s such a thing as overtired,” she growls. “There comes a point in your day where you’re so wiped out, you become restless. Your legs twitch and your brain won’t stop. Your body is tired, but your mind won’t quit tormenting you. Because bills are due, and your husband is never happy, no matter what you cook or how much you clean or how beautiful and kind and smart your daughters are. I was at that point in my day.”
Hell if she’s not right.
Maybe my mind circles on my father and his abuse. My brothers. Their lives and safety. Maybe my brain focuses on different things. But being so tired, you can’t sleep?
Yeah, I’ve felt that.
“So you dosed yourself up,” Fletch accepts. “Got extra sleepy, and you just…. Slept through your husband’s murder?”
“Yes.” Her lips tremble. Her eyes swim. But she looks at my partner and dips her chin. “Yes, I slept through it.”
“You heard nothing? You didn’t stir in your sleep at all?”
“I heard nothing,” she declares. “I slept all night, uninterrupted, for the first time since I can remember. I woke up yesterday morning around six. Got up to start my day. My girls were still asleep, which was unusual for them, too.” She stops and swallows, meeting my eyes. “I was mad, Detectives. I was irritated at William’s attempt to sabotage my attendance in class—again—but Professor Jones always makes the material available online anyway, so his interference was in vain. I got up to make my morning coffee, and I intended to enjoy the quiet for as long as the girls slept. Probably read the notes from class. Catch up on what I missed. I assumed William had already left for work without waking me. But that’s when I found him.” Her voice catches, emotion settling deep in her throat and almost strangling her to a stop. “He was on the recliner still. Sleeping.” She brings a shaking hand up to her quivering lips. “I thought he was asleep since, from the kitchen, you can only see the back of the chair.”
“You didn’t see the blood everywhere?” Her story fits. It’s plausible. But, “That room was soaked in your husband’s blood, Adrianna. The recliner was drenched. The floor. The carpet. The walls… It was everywhere. Are you telling me you saw that man in his recliner, but not the blood surrounding him?”
“We see what we expect to see,” she groans. “For a minute, anyway. It was first thing in the morning, Detective. The sun was barely coming up. I hadn’t had my coffee. My brain was cloudy from sleep. And he wasn’t even supposed to be there.” Fresh tears well up in her eyes. “I saw what I expected to see at first: an empty, peaceful home. Then I saw him.” She hiccups, her entire torso bouncing from the movement. “I saw the blood. And that’s when I realized something awful had happened.”
“What did you do?” Fletch leans against the table, drawing Adrianna’s eyes to him. “You saw him. Real life snapped back into focus. What did you do first?”
