Love You More: A Novel

“We’re going to need to see your medical records,” D.D. stated. She was staring at my lawyer, challenging him.

“I fell down the stairs,” I said, my lips twisting into a funny smile, because it was actually the truth, but they, of course, would interpret it as the appropriate lie. Irony. God save me from irony.

“Excuse me?”

“The bruise on my ribs … Should’ve de-iced the outdoor steps. Oops.”

Detective Warren gave me an incredulous look. “Sure. You fell. What, three, four times?”

“I think it was only twice.”

She didn’t appreciate my sense of humor. “Ever report your husband for battery?” she pressed.

I shook my head. Made the back of my skull ping-pong with pain while filling my good eye with tears.

“What about to a fellow trooper? Say, Trooper Lyons. Sounds like he’s good at helping out around the house.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Female friend?” Bobby spoke up. “What about a minister, or a call to a hotline? We are asking these things to help you, Tessa.”

The tears built up more. I blinked them away.

“Wasn’t that bad,” I said finally, staring up at the white ceiling tiles. “Not in the beginning. I thought … I thought I could control him. Get things back on track.”

“When did your husband start lifting weights?” Bobby asked.

“Nine months ago.”

“Looks like he packed on some pounds. Thirty pounds over nine months. Was he using supplements?”

“He wouldn’t say.”

“But he was bulking up. Actively working on increasing muscle mass?”

Miserably, I nodded my head. All the times I told him he didn’t need to work out that hard. That he already looked good, was plenty strong. I should’ve known better, his obsessive need for tidiness, his compulsive drive to organize even the soup cans. I should’ve read the signs. But I hadn’t. As the saying goes, the wife is always the last to know.

“When did he first hit Sophie?” D.D. asked.

“He did not!” I fired to life.

“Really? You’re seriously gonna tell me, with your bashed-up skull and shattered cheek, that your brute of a dead husband hit you and only you, for as long as you both shall live?”

“He loved Sophie!”

“But he didn’t love you. That was the problem.”

“Maybe he was on steroids.” It was something. I looked at Bobby.

“ ’Roid rage doesn’t discriminate,” D.D. drawled. “Then he’d definitely whack both of you.”

“I’m just saying … He’d only been home from his last tour a couple of weeks, and this time … this time something had definitely changed.” That much wasn’t a lie. In fact, I hoped they would trace that thread. I could use a couple of crack detectives on my side. Certainly, Sophie deserved investigators smarter than me coming to the rescue.

“He was more violent,” Bobby stated carefully.

“Angry. All the time. I was trying to understand, hoping he’d settle back in. But it wasn’t working.” I twisted the top blanket with one hand, squeezed the button beneath the blanket with the other. “I just … I don’t know how it got to this. And that’s the truth. We loved each other. He was a good husband and a good father. Then …” More tears. Honest ones this time. I let a single drop trace down my cheek. “I don’t know how it got to this.”

The detectives fell quiet. My lawyer had relaxed beside me. I think he liked the tears, and probably the mention of possible steroid abuse, as well. That was a good angle.

“Where’s Sophie?” D.D. asked, less hostile now, more intent.

“Don’t know.” Another honest answer.

“Her boots are gone. Coat, too. Like someone bundled her up, took her away.”

“Mrs. Ennis?” I spoke up hopefully. “She’s Sophie’s caretaker—”

“We know who she is,” D.D. interjected. “She doesn’t have your child.”

“Oh.”

“Does Brian have a second home? Old ski lodge, fishing shack, anything like that?” Bobby this time.

I shook my head. I was getting tired, feeling my fatigue in spite of myself. I needed to get my endurance up. Build up my strength for the days and nights to come.

“Who else might know Sophie, remove her from your home?” D.D. insistent, not letting it go.

“I don’t know—”

“Brian’s family?” she persisted.

“He has a mother, four sisters. The sisters are scattered, his mother lives in New Hampshire. You’d have to ask, but we never saw them that much. His schedule, mine.”

“Your family?”

“I don’t have a family,” I said automatically.

“That’s not what the police file said.”

“What?”

“What?” my lawyer echoed.

Neither detective looked at him. “Ten years ago. When you were questioned by the police for the death of nineteen-year-old Thomas Howe. According to the paperwork, it was your own father who supplied the gun.”

I stared at D. D. Warren. Just stared and stared and stared.

“Those records are sealed,” I said softly.