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“We stopped the car in his driveway, kinda like we belonged there.”
“Why?” Fletch sits down beside me and leans forward to rest on his forearms. “Why’d you pull into his driveway and not park on the street, or down the block?”
“Because if we’d parked in front of someone else’s house, maybe that neighbor would’ve reported us as suspicious. Or if we walked through the streets that late at night and dogs started barking, we might’ve been stopped. Besides,” he glances down to his swirling black coffee, “we were carrying things. Tools and whatnot. No way we could carry those through the street.”
I look to Fletch and know, if Garret names an axe or nylon rope or a tire iron, we have the right guy. Because no one but us, the medical examiner’s office, and the killers, know the details of Paul’s murder.
“We were carrying tools, and we knew we’d probably get messy while we were inside. So we parked right in the driveway and went about our business.”
“How’d you get into the house?” I look down at his fussing hands. His bitten and mutilated fingernails. “Did you break a window? Climb a tree and go in through the second story?”
“We went through the front door.”
“How?” Fletch demands. “It was locked when police arrived on scene.”
“With a key.” Bringing his gaze up, he looks to me and hardens his jaw. “I used a key to enter, then I locked up on the way out.”
