Chương 8
A shirt kept in our garage.
Selina’s blood.
Flynn’s skin cells.
The evidence could mean almost anything.
Or almost everything.
“When was the shirt last worn?” Ruiz asked.
“I don’t know.”
“By Flynn?”
“Probably.”
“Could Selina have handled it before Thursday?”
“I didn’t even know she had been in the house before Thursday.”
Nora muttered something under her breath.
Ruiz glanced at her.
“What?”
“I said apparently everybody had been in Mabel’s house except Mabel.”
Ruiz did not smile.
Neither did I.
“Did Flynn tell you he was in the garage that morning?” she asked.
“No.”
“Do you remember him going downstairs?”
“Our garage is attached.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
I closed my eyes.
Thursday morning came back in pieces.
Flynn eating toast without finishing it.
His phone buzzing beside his coffee.
Me standing at the sink because the smell of eggs had made me nauseated.
He had asked whether I was sick.
I had said probably something I ate.
He had looked at me for half a second, then gone back to his phone.
Later, he left for the office.
Then he returned for the presentation folder.
He had entered through the garage.
I opened my eyes.
“He came home through there.”
“What time?”
“Close to noon.”
“How long was he in the house?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes.”
“Did he go back through the garage?”
“Yes.”
“Did he take anything?”
“His folder.”
Ruiz made a note.
“Anything unusual about him?”
I almost said no.
Then I remembered his cuff.
“What?”
Ruiz asked.
“He changed his shirt.”
Nora turned toward me.
I continued slowly.
“When he came back for the folder, he was wearing a blue dress shirt.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“He left that morning wearing white?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he change?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ask?”
“No.”
The answer embarrassed me.
Not because I should have interrogated my husband about clothing.
Because I had noticed.
I had simply trained myself not to ask questions that might become arguments.
Ruiz watched me.
“Where was the white shirt afterward?”
“I don’t know.”
“Laundry?”
“Maybe.”
“Garage?”
“I don’t know.”
She closed the folder.
“I need to speak with him again.”
Nora folded her arms.
“About whether he helped Selina manufacture evidence against his wife before stabbing her?”
Ruiz looked at her.
“About a shirt.”
“That is an aggressively calm way to phrase it.”
“Calm questions make nervous people talk.”
I stared at the photograph.
“What if Flynn didn’t know what she was doing?”
Ruiz’s gaze shifted to me.
“Possible.”
“What if he cut his hand or touched the shirt days earlier?”
“Possible.”
“What if Selina used it herself?”
“Possible.”
Nora exhaled sharply.
“Detective, with respect, is anything impossible?”
“Most things become impossible after lab work.”
She gathered the evidence photographs.
“That’s why I like lab work.”
After she left, I asked Nora to help me sit up.
My abdomen protested immediately.
“Why?”
“Because I’m tired of talking to people while lying flat like a Victorian invalid.”
“You were stabbed.”
“I noticed.”
“You’re also terrible at resting.”
“I had no idea marriage had prepared you for this much criticism.”
She adjusted the pillows behind me anyway.
A few minutes later, lunch arrived.
Mashed potatoes, green beans, and something claiming to be chicken.
Nora poked it with a plastic fork.
“It moved.”
“It did not.”
“I saw it.”
“You’re trying to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
“A little.”
She ate my pudding.
I let her.
For nearly ten minutes, we talked about nothing important.
Her neighbor had replaced a perfectly healthy maple tree with decorative gravel.
Her office had hired a man who microwaved fish.
Our mother had sent Nora six messages accusing both of us of emotional cruelty for keeping her away.
Normal life pressed against the edges of disaster.
I had forgotten how much I needed it.
Then my phone rang.
Not Flynn.
My divorce attorney.
Her name was Caroline Hayes.
She had represented a pharmaceutical executive in a public divorce so ugly that even I had heard about it.
Nora had chosen her for precisely that reason.
Caroline arrived an hour later wearing a navy coat and carrying no visible sympathy.
I liked her immediately.
She sat beside the bed and opened a yellow legal pad.
“Your sister told me enough to ruin my appetite.”
“That seems medically appropriate for this hospital.”
Caroline glanced at the lunch tray.
“I withdraw the complaint.”
Nora smiled despite herself.
Then Caroline’s expression sharpened.
“I need to separate three things.”
“Marriage, criminal case, financial mess?”
“Exactly.”
She pointed her pen at me.
“Do not use the divorce to investigate the criminal case.”
“Why?”
“Because your husband’s criminal attorney will treat every request as hostile discovery.”
“He stabbed me.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m supposed to be concerned about appearing hostile?”
“You’re supposed to be concerned about being effective.”
I looked at her.
“Fine.”
“Second, your prenup matters.”
“That’s why Selina took the drive.”
“Maybe.”
Caroline held up one finger.
“Do not fall in love with your own theory.”
I disliked her slightly less immediately.
“What does the prenup say?”
Nora answered.
“Separate property stays separate.”
Caroline nodded.
“And marital property?”
“Split according to contribution and specified schedules.”
“Infidelity clause?”
“No.”
“Violence clause?”
I shook my head.
“Most people don’t anticipate needing one.”
Caroline did not react.
“Any clause affecting ownership if one spouse commits a felony against the other?”
“No.”
“Then the stabbing does not automatically hand you his assets.”
“I don’t want his assets.”
“That sentence is emotionally understandable and legally unhelpful.”
“I want out.”
“And I want you out without accidentally taking ownership of someone else’s fraud.”
That stopped me.
She leaned forward.
“If someone has been moving money through accounts in your name, your financial exposure may become part of the divorce whether you like it or not.”
“Daniel said they’re trying to make it look like I created the structure.”
“Then we need independent forensic accountants.”
“Already called one,” Nora said.
Caroline looked at her.
“You’re annoying.”
May you like
“People tell me that.”
“Good.”
