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Despite the nerves churning in my stomach, I take a sip of coffee, watching him over the rim.
“Would you like cream or sugar?” I ask.
“I would like nothing.”
I lower the mug onto the table, wrap my hands around it.
“What do you know?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“About the letters. How did you find out?”
“I heard about it while I was still in. Someone saw it on the news. The news made its way to me pretty quickly.”
“You’re lying. The news story simply cited ‘new evidence brought forth by an unnamed source’ that would possibly reignite the case. How did you know that there were letters, specifically?”
“I’m not lying. I heard about the story through the news, but heard the details through gossip.” He pauses. “Gossip also says there was a piece of your mother’s jewelry included with one of the letters.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why should I trust you, Mr. Cohen?”
“Rhett.”
“Why should I trust you, Rhett?”
“Because I don’t lie. And I did not kill your mother.”
“So then someone framed you? That’s what you really think?”
“Yes.”
I look down, begin circling the coffee cup between my fingertips.
“Do you believe me?” he asks.
I look up.
“Do you believe me?” he repeats.
When I don’t immediately respond, he presses. “Make the decision right now—right this second, at this table. If you believe me, I’d like to see the letters. If you don’t believe me I will leave right now and you will never see me again.”
“I believe you.”
“Good, then can I please see the letters and the necklace?”
Please.The word seems out of place coming from him.
“The necklace and letters are in police custody. But I have copies of the letters. I’ll be right back. Stay here. Please.”
I rise, step out of the kitchen, out of his view, and exhale.
My heart is racing.
I hurry to the bedroom, shut—and lock—the door, then grab a pair of clean jeans from the mountain of laundry on my bed, yet to be folded. After unhooking my kneepads and tossing them into the corner, I rip off my dirty jeans, slip into the clean pair and put on a bra under my tank. Then, I smear deodorant under my arms. After running a brush through my hair and adding a few dabs of concealer to the horrific dark circles under my eyes, I decide I look marginally more presentable. Feel more confident.
Manila envelope in hand, I hurry back to the kitchen, half of me expecting Rhett to be gone.
He is still seated at the table, still in the exact same position as when I left. Back straight, hands on his thighs. He has not moved an inch, literally.
