Well aware that nothing is conclusive at this stage, Steve nods. “Tell me what you see.”
“There are no hesitation wounds. The cuts on his wrists appear to be of equal depth and were made with equal pressure appear to have severed the tendons.”
“Meaning it would be impossible to use the hand on whichever side was done first to do the other side with that much precision. Meaning he definitely didn’t do it himself.”
“ ‘Impossible’ and ‘definitely’ are strong words, Steve, but you’re probably on the right track. Pretty impressive that you were suspicious about the wounds just at a glance.”
“He’s holding the knife in his left hand, and he’s left--handed.”
“And you know this because . . . ?”
“Because there’s a set of left--handed golf clubs in the hall closet.”
“Maybe someone else is storing them here,” Mary Ellen points out.
“His name is on the tag on the bag. Anyway, he’d instinctively make the first cut with the dominant hand—-the left—-and then switch to the other hand, the right. That’s where the knife should be.”
“Whoever killed him must not have known him very well, then.”
“Or knew him—-and was so caught up in the emotion that went along with killing him—-that he slipped up. Even the most meticulous killers make mistakes. And there are a few other things that don’t add up to suicide.”
“Like what?”
“Like we didn’t find a cell phone here and we searched every inch of the place.”
“Maybe he doesn’t have one. Maybe—-”
“There’s no landline, and there’s a cell phone charger plugged into that outlet on the kitchen counter.”
Again, Mary Ellen plays devil’s advocate. “Maybe he lost his phone.”
“Or maybe there was something on it that someone didn’t want anyone to see.”
“Wait, so you’re just leaving?” Kevin asks, as Noreen tosses toiletries into an overnight bag in the master bathroom.
“I’m going to see my sister, like I said. For one night.”
“What about the girls?”
“What about them?” She strides back into the bedroom and opens a bureau drawer to find something warm to sleep in. Rowan’s house was cold and drafty the one time she visited—-much too cold for the silk nightgown she was wearing.
“What am I supposed to tell them?”
“Tell them the truth: that Aunt Rowan needed me to come help her with something and I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“What, exactly, are you helping her with?”
She shrugs and shakes her head, already having informed him—-twice—-that she can’t tell him that and it’s none of his business.
“Are you sleeping with someone?” Kevin demands.
If the mighty scream were still lurking in her gut, that question, under these circumstances, might have set it free.
She merely laughs and shakes her head. “No. I’m not sleeping with anyone.”
Not tonight. Not in a while, actually.
Her last dalliance was with a horse trainer at the barn where Sabrina rides, and that was last August. Even if she’d had the energy or the heart to fool around since Kevin told her he wanted to separate, she’s much too smart for that.
Bag packed, she heads for the hall. He follows her down the stairs.
“What the hell is that?” he asks, catching sight of the shattered picture frame.
“Leave it. I wouldn’t want to drive you crazy with my neat--nicky nitpicking.”
She slams the door behind her, climbs into the car, rests her forehead against the steering wheel, and exhales. Perhaps for the first time in months.
Then, as she pulls out of the driveway, she starts making phone calls. She has to cancel her meeting, clear her calendar, let the carpool moms know that Kevin will be driving tonight instead . . .
She starts with her partner, telling Jennifer that something came up—-family emergency—-and she has to leave town.
“Oh no. Are the kids okay?”
“They’re fine. It’s not the kids, it’s—-a long story. I’ll explain later.”