“Hi,” he said. “How are you doing?”
“Holding on,” she said. “Can you answer a simple question for me?”
“I can try,” Treloar said.
“Why is this homicide detective interrogating me about whether or not I own a gun? Was my husband murdered?”
Treloar’s eyes shifted away from her for a microsecond. “We’re keeping all possibilities open.”
A roaring filled Nessa’s ears. Was it possible that John hadn’t killed himself? That someone else had?
She cleared her throat. “Is that why you need a sample of DNA?”
Treloar nodded. “For comparison purposes.”
“Comparison to what?”
Dirksen said, “Mrs. Donati—-”
“Why won’t you answer my questions?”
“Because this is an open investigation.”
She stared at Dirksen, then addressed Treloar.
“Did you find John?”
“No,” he said.
Dirksen shot him a grimace.
“May I leave?” Nessa asked him.
“Of course you can,” Treloar said. “Just one thing though. Would you have enough time to give us a fingerprint sample before you go?”
Everything froze. Nessa couldn’t seem to move her mouth for a moment. “A what?”
“We’re processing your husband’s truck, and we need to eliminate your and your husband’s fingerprints. His are on file, is that correct?”
“Um, yes,” Nessa said, trying to think clearly, but it wasn’t working. She looked at her watch. “We’ll have to do that another day. I really have to go. Daltrey’s got a . . .”
A what?
“A birthday party to go to, so . . .”
“A minute ago, you said it was his nap time,” Dirksen said.
Of course she did. She nearly smacked herself in the forehead.
She walked to the door. “I’ll give you a call and set up an appointment to come back. All right, Detective?”
The detectives exchanged a glance.
“Sure,” Treloar said. “Give me a call.”
She opened the door and walked through it, having to restrain herself from holding her middle fingers in the air as she walked away.
A rural housewife didn’t act that way, even if she was a person of interest.
But if they took her fingerprints, they’d really be interested, but for an entirely different reason. Because her fingerprints belonged to a dead person.
Chapter Twelve
AT DALTREY’S BEDTIME, Nessa read him five books before helping him brush his teeth and put on his pajamas. When she tucked him in, he stared up into her eyes stoically and signed “Daddy” with one hand, the red toy car still clutched in the other.
What was she supposed to tell him? Your father loved cocaine more than he loved you. He was willing to give up everything to be with drugs. And one way or another, they’re what killed him.
It would be years before Daltrey would be able to understand any of this, and the emotional and psychological fallout would last years beyond that. For now though, he was a nonverbal almost--four--year--old who needed to go to sleep.
“I love you,” Nessa said, then kissed and hugged him, his pudgy arms around her neck, the puppy smell of him tugging hard on her bruised heart. She turned on his night--light and rain sound machine, then closed the door most of the way.
She went downstairs and found Isabeau sprawled on the couch in the living room watching TV, remote in hand. She muted the sound with it.
Daltrey had been around them all day, so Nessa hadn’t had a chance to tell Isabeau what happened at the police station. She snapped off the television and sat in the wingback chair. Before she could tell the story though, she said, “I’m going to cry now.”
She did, for a good ninety seconds, and then dry--sobbed her way through the story, at one point allowing Isabeau to get a glass of water for her.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Mr. Donati? About the crack and all that?”
“I’m a very private person,” Nessa said.
“I get that, but it kind of seems like crucial information to give an employee who works in your house.”
Nessa’s head thundered and her eyes stung. Isabeau was right, especially since the information in question might have prevented her from taking the job in the first place. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think it would be an issue.”
“I guess I thought you were a single mother or something,” Isabeau said. “Marlon didn’t tell me any of this.”
“It’s not his story to tell.”
Marlon’s recommendation of Isabeau was further AA rule--breaking, but nothing about their relationship was conventional AA. Marlon did what he wanted.
“I’m really sorry,” Isabeau said. “About all of this. You must be devastated.”