Frustration is like a sizzling charge of dynamite inside me. “Damn it, she’s a danger to those kids.”
“I’ve got to go.” Looking annoyed, not wanting to deal with this monkey wrench on a golf day, Rasmussen glances at his watch. “She asked to see you. Her attorney said it would be okay so long as you’re in there as a civilian.”
Surprise ripples through me. I figured I’d be the last person she wanted to see. “Sure.”
He sighs. “To be perfectly honest, Kate, maybe you shouldn’t go in there.”
“I’m glad that’s not your decision to make.”
Shaking his head, he turns and walks away.
I watch him disappear into the reception area; then I turn toward the interview room. I can feel my heart thrumming in my chest. Nerves tie my stomach in a knot. Over the years, I’ve conducted hundreds of interviews. I’ve faced people who would just as soon have slit my throat as look at me. It’s strange, but I don’t ever remember being as apprehensive as I am today.
All eyes sweep to me when I enter the room. Tomasetti sits at the head of the table, slouching in his chair, doodling on a small spiral pad. Adam Slabaugh sits to his right, staring into a Styrofoam cup as if it holds the secret of the universe. Salome sits beside him, clutching a tissue, looking small and pale and … lost. She’s wearing blue jeans and a white sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big. She looks inordinately out of place here—too young, too pretty, and far too innocent to be surrounded by cops asking questions about murder.
A few feet away, her attorney leans against the wall with a BlackBerry stuck to his ear, a shepherd keeping watch over his accident-prone flock. I’ve met him at some point, but I don’t remember his name. He’s a nice-looking young man with a ruddy complexion sprinkled with freckles, reddish hair, and a matching goatee. He’s overdressed in a gray suit that looks custom-made, but it’s matched with a Walmart tie. I can smell the Polo aftershave from where I stand.
He offers me a cocky smirk as he shoves the BlackBerry into an inside pocket. “Chief Burkholder, I’m Colin Thornsberry, Miss Slabaugh’s attorney.”
Since I’m not pleased to meet him, I simply nod.
“Normally, I wouldn’t allow an officer with your kind of … personal involvement to speak to my client, but she asked to see you. Her uncle agreed it would be okay. Since this is an informal meeting…” He shrugs. “Here we are.”
I give him my best “Eat dog shit” look as I cross to the table and sit across from Salome.
“Nothing inappropriate, please,” the attorney adds. “My client has had a tremendously difficult couple of days.”
Not as difficult as her parents, uncle, and brothers, I think. But I don’t say the words.
He brushes his fingertips across Salome’s shoulder. She offers him a faint smile. Then he withdraws his BlackBerry and strides over to the window, texting like a fixated high school student.
I turn my attention to Salome. Myriad emotions rush through me in a torrent when our gazes meet. She’s been crying; her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. Even knowing everything that I do about her, there’s a part of me that’s moved. A part of me wants to go to her, believe in her, protect her from all these big bad cops and an attorney who looks at her as if she’s a piece of meat. But with four people dead, I don’t have the luxury of sticking my head in the sand.
I’m aware of Tomasetti watching me, but I don’t look at him. I hear the lawyer speaking with quiet authority into his BlackBerry. But all of my attention is focused on the girl sitting across from me. She doesn’t know about my conversation with her brothers. She has no idea I suspect her of cold-blooded murder. She still believes I’ve come here to beg her forgiveness for killing her lover.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I begin.
She sends me a small, uncertain smile. “I didn’t know if you’d come. I’m glad you did.”
I match her smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” She looks down at her hands, little-girl hands. For the first time, it strikes me how incongruent they are with the rest of her, with everything that’s happened, everything she’s done.
“Do you need anything?” I ask.
She raises her gaze to mine. Her eyes are soft and benign and so utterly lovely, I can’t look away. “I just wanted to tell you … I mean, about what happened … with Mose.” She visibly swallows, blinks back tears. “I’m not mad. And I don’t blame you. I know you were only doing your job.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. “I’m glad you don’t hold it against me.” Silence weighs heavy for a moment, like the electrically charged air right before a crack of thunder. “I was afraid he was going to hurt you.”
“He never hurt me. He would never do that. He loved me.”
“I know.”
“He was trying to protect me. He was … confused.”
“I understand.”