“I don’t think the money was your main concern,” Corcoran says. “What really worried you was the fact that Eve Blazer might be having an affair with her husband.”
Fear explodes in me, like a firecracker. Now I see what this is all about. She thinks I might be the killer, that I took an ax to Eve out of raging jealousy.
“This is ludicrous,” Maycock says. “Are you saying that Ms. Harper is a suspect in your investigation?”
Corcoran doesn’t even look at Maycock, just holds my gaze.
“Where were you a week ago Friday night?” she asks.
I do my best to tamp down my fear. They can’t have a shred of real evidence pointing to me.
“I was at home.”
“Did—?”
But before she can get another word out, Maycock interrupts.
“I’m ending this interview,” Maycock says, starting to rise. “And unless my client is under arrest, we are both leaving. Any future correspondence with my client regarding this investigation must only occur in my presence.” He taps his fingers against my elbow, motioning for me to stand as well.
“If you have any plans to leave Saratoga Springs, I suggest you cancel them,” Corcoran calls out as we reach the door.
As we head through the labyrinth of desks on our way out, I feel every set of eyes boring into me, as if we’re on a walk of shame. Maycock doesn’t even let me catch my breath on the sidewalk, and instead guides me quickly to his parking spot. I can hear the sound of blood pounding in my ears.
“They can’t really think I did it, can they?” I say as soon as we’re in the car.
“Unfortunately, it does seem like they’re considering it,” Maycock says, firing up the engine. “That you killed her and then faked the call so you could show up the next morning and look shocked—or simply to check out the situation.”
It’s the clichéd story line of a cop show: the killer returning to the scene of the crime. Corcoran had seemed sympathetic toward me the morning of the murder, but she was probably already eyeing me suspiciously. And this explains why the previous interviews with her always felt loaded.
“What am I going to do?” I say, nearly pleading.
Maycock noses the car out of the parking space. “Let me ask you. Is there any possibility the cops could trace the disposable phone back to you?”
“Of course not.” Maycock is clearly toying with the idea that I could be guilty.
“Tell me about the night of the murder. Were you alone?”
“Yes—but only until nine or so, when Guy came home.”
“Did you make a phone call, chat with a friend?”
“No,” I say without even having to think. I’ve done so little chatting with friends since I’ve been up here.
“Were you online? That can serve as proof that you weren’t out killing someone.”
My mind is addled with panic, but I force my memory back to last Friday. Before Guy arrived home—and we ate the leftover tagine—I’d sat for a while in the den alone. With my laptop.
“I sent a bunch of emails that night,” I say, simultaneously stuffing a hand into my bag. “Here, let me find them for you.”
He holds up a hand. “Unfortunately I have a family obligation right now. After I drop you off, why don’t you go home and search for anything you sent out that night? Forward all those emails to me. And whatever you do, don’t delete anything, even if it’s something private you don’t want the cops to see.”
I nod in agreement. At the next stop sign he fishes for his wallet and hands me a business card with his email address.
Two minutes later, I’m sitting in my car, my heart still racing. I’m a person of interest in a murder investigation.
I upend my messenger bag, dumping the contents into the passenger seat, and paw through it until I locate my phone. I scroll through sent emails until I reach the night of the murder. There are more emails between seven and nine o’clock than I recall sending—a batch to my assistant, and then a long one to Will in Jakarta. I nearly cry with relief. Hopefully this will be enough to get Corcoran to back off.
Noting the time on my phone, I remember my lunch with Sandra. I hardly have the stomach or the psychic energy for chick chat now, and yet, as I’ve already considered, it could be good to have an ally in town. I opt not to cancel.
There’s over an hour to kill before lunch with Sandra, but I’ve no intention of going home and brooding in that big, empty house. I head for downtown with the idea that maybe I’ll find a spot to have a coffee. As I drive along Broadway, though, the idea of pulling over someplace holds little appeal. The town that I once found so charming seems oppressive today, with all its dark brick buildings.