The police set up a perimeter around the house, then hunkered down to wait.
The hostage negotiator called Corban on the house line.
The plan was to talk him down.
The order was not to shoot.
And yet Corban took one bullet to the left temple.
No one here is claiming responsibility for firing it.
The answer lurches me to my feet, and I spring over the coffee table, hurling myself through the bodies crowding the room. Hands grab at me, and I shake them off, sprinting out the back door.
“Will!” The dogs start up again, and I yell it even louder. “Will!”
I tear across my backyard to the fence, my head whipping back and forth, my gaze searching in the shadows. I’m frantic, wild and hysterical, desperate to find my husband, who I know—I know—is the one who fired the shot.
I cup my hands and scream his name into the sky, even though I know he’s not here. By now, Will is long gone.
The realization is like a kick to the gut, and I double over, wrapping both arms around my middle and wailing. Fury and frustration sweep over me in waves, gaining strength on the replay of tonight’s events.
Strong hands clamp on to my shoulders and pull me up and back, turning me into a familiar embrace.
“You’re okay,” Evan says, his big arms wrapping tightly around me. “I’ve got you.”
30
“Mrs. Griffith,” a female voice says. I look up from where my face is buried in Evan’s chest to see that it’s Detective Johnson standing at the edge of the grass, the detective we spoke to last week at the station. “We have some questions for you when you’re ready.”
I’m not anywhere near ready. I’m still shaking all over, my muscles tense and slack at the same time, and I feel sick. An adrenaline hangover combined with horror and physical exhaustion. I grab Evan’s shirt in both fists and suck a lungful of crisp night air. The backyard spins. “I think I need to sit down.”
Evan’s demeanor shifts in an instant, switching from friend and consoler to solemn lawyer mode. “My client needs a few moments to collect herself.”
Detective Johnson locks eyes with me for the span of a couple breaths. “She’s got ten, but have her do it somewhere else. This backyard is an active crime scene, and y’all are contaminating it.”
He gazes beyond her to the house, and the dozen or so officers swarming on the other side of the lit-up windows of my den, taking photographs and collecting evidence.
“Let’s talk in my car,” he says, leading me to the side of the house.
“That’s fine,” Detective Johnson calls out behind us, “but do not leave the premises. Ten minutes, Mr. Sheffield, and then I’m coming down there to get her. Understood?”
“Understood.”
At the front of the house, a long line of police cars and ambulances stand silent and empty on the street, their blue and red lights swirling. A couple of cops stand in a huddle by the mailbox, holding back a pack of curious neighbors. They look up in surprise when they see us coming down the drive, and Evan gives them a quick rundown of the agreement. One of the cops squawks into his walkie-talkie, confirming Evan’s tale with Detective Johnson, then waves us on.
“Don’t say a word until we’re in the car,” Evan mumbles.
I press my lips together, letting him pack me into the passenger’s seat of his Range Rover. Once I’m in, he jogs around the front to his side, climbs in and slams the door.
“Holy shit, Iris. Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you give me a sign?”
“Because I was waiting for Will. I talked to him, Evan. He called me on the phone.”
“Whose phone?” Evan doesn’t seem all that surprised, but he does look concerned.
“My cell.”
As I say the words, the realization hits, and I fumble for the phone in my pocket. Will called me, which means I have his number. I can call him back! I pull up the log and hit Redial on the top number. A few seconds later, three melodic beeps come down the line, then a recording in French that is slow and straightforward enough for me to get the gist. The number has been disconnected.
“How can that be? He called me from this number just an hour ago.” I hit End, punch Redial, tears of fury and frustration building all over again when I get the same result. “Dammit!” I mash the buttons and try again.
He wraps a palm over my hands, stilling them. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out, okay? We’ll find him.”
I nod, the movement fast and frantic, but the relief is instant. So far, Evan has done everything he’s said he would do and more. I release a breath, and my shoulders drop a good three inches. If he says he’ll help me find Will, Evan will help me find Will.
Once Evan sees I’m calm, he settles back into his seat. “Okay. Tell me everything, starting the second I left.”
The words come out as frenzied as I feel, jumbled and in spurts and starts, tumbling one over the next at breakneck speed. My story is all over the place, but Evan listens without interruption, without even an occasional nod. The entire time, his gaze never leaves my face.
“Will shot Corban. I’m positive of it. He called the police, and when he saw they weren’t going to do it, Will took the shot himself.”
“Will didn’t call the police, Iris. I did.”
“What?”
He swipes a hand down his face, his fingers digging into his beard, and nods. “After you handed me my wallet, I couldn’t shake the feeling there was something wrong. The whole way home I kept thinking I missed something, some signal you were trying to give me that things weren’t right. I was drifting when it came to me. Your alarm wasn’t on. Not when you answered the door, and not when you closed it. You didn’t arm the system.”
“Because we were waiting for Will.”
“So you said.”
“What, you don’t believe me?”
“No, I do. I do believe you, but if you’re right, if Will’s the one who pulled the trigger, that means he’s guilty of a lot more than just embezzlement. Assuming it wasn’t one of them, the police are going to treat Corban’s death as a murder. They’re going to put manpower behind finding his killer.”
My mind is depleted by the night’s events, from trying to beat back my surging emotions like an exasperating game of Whac-A-Mole, so it takes more than a few seconds for Evan’s words to register. But when they do, when the magnitude of his meaning hits, it straightens my spine and skids my voice back into hysteria. “But that’s not right! Will killed Corban, because otherwise Corban would have killed me.”
“Iris, Corban was unarmed.”
“So? People can kill with their hands, especially when they’re attached to arms as big as Corban’s. And Will knew him. He knew what he was capable of.”