Rico stopped taking notes. “Why didn’t you call the police? After running into Carver Sweet at the hospital, I would think you’d have called.”
“Helen called.”
But my spine prickled, and I knew before Rico said it. “We didn’t get a call from anyone named Helen. We did, however, get a call from someone reporting an intruder at this address. Do you own a gun, Cassie?”
His voice was soft, and this was the first time he hadn’t addressed me as Dr. Larkin, but I took no comfort in his casual approach. When I was eleven, I had tried to escape the neighbor’s dog through a hole at the bottom of our fence. But I had misjudged the size of the hole and got stuck. While the neighbor’s dog had mercilessly licked my exposed ankle, the broken planks had pressed against my back, their jagged teeth forcing me against the dirt. Each attempt to wriggle free made the vise tighter, until I could draw only shallow breaths.
I felt the same now.
“I don’t own a gun,” I said, with a rough voice I barely recognized.
“The caller reported that the intruder had a gun. After what your family’s been through, I understand why you’d carry one.” His eyes aimed for sympathy, and they came close. But I’d heard somewhere that detectives usually knew the answers to the questions they asked. If true, did Rico have “proof” I had a weapon?
“Will officers find a gun inside the house, Cassie?”
Would they? I had thoroughly searched the house, but I wasn’t sure. “If they find a gun, it isn’t mine.”
I tried to read Rico’s eyes, but they gave away nothing. “The other thing is, the key you gave us doesn’t fit this lock.”
It didn’t? Then: Of course it didn’t. Uncertain how to respond, I said nothing.
“You’ve never been here before, right?”
“I’ve been in the neighborhood when I was looking for Sam, but I’ve never been inside this house.”
“You mean, before tonight.”
“Of course.” I realized I’d crossed my arms again. I uncrossed them.
“Where are your kids, Cassie?”
I felt the crease between my eyebrows deepen. Not a question I had been expecting. “With a friend.”
“Both of them?”
“Of course. Why would you ask that?”
“I heard Leo was hurt pretty badly playing football.”
“He has a mild concussion and a torn meniscus,” I confirmed.
“He can walk, though? And drive?”
Had Rico learned that Leo had run over Carver? My eyes darted to my rental car for signs an evidence technician was examining the hood, but the car sat untouched under a streetlight.
Rico noticed. “Need to leave?”
My heart hammered. “Leo’s injured, but he can walk. As far as driving, he’s only fifteen.”
“But he has his permit?”
“What are you asking, Detective?”
“Just making sure I’ve got the details right. Before you came here, you dropped Leo at his friend’s house?”
“My friend, not his,” I clarified. “Why are you asking about Leo?”
My question hung in the air, unanswered. “Does this friend of yours have a car?”
“Of course she does.”
“Leo would have access?”
“What does any of this have to do with finding Sam?”
The full weight of Rico’s attention fell on me. Sympathy remained in his expression, but it battled with something else—suspicion? “I have a nephew, just graduated college. He was in an auto accident when he was in high school. You know how it can be—inexperienced driver, bad weather. Weather wasn’t so bad tonight.
“I tell you this because since my nephew’s accident, I’ve become pretty good at reading scenes.”
My heart sank. “Has Sam been in an accident?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Not yet.” This time, there was no mistaking the suspicion. But, given the nature of his questions, I had a terrible feeling it wasn’t directed at me.
“The kid who hurt your boy? I heard the play was dirty, and I can understand why that might make someone angry. Does Leo have a temper?”
I was suddenly terrified of saying the wrong thing. “No more than any teenager. Why?”
“That kid crashed about an hour ago, hit a tree, but there’s also a dent on the opposite side of his car. I’m guessing when the investigation is done, we’ll find that someone ran him off the road. Like I said, I’m pretty good at reading accident scenes.”
“Are you insinuating Leo’s involved?”
“I’m just trying to get to the truth, and he and the boy did have history.”
The way he said it left no room for doubt: Rico knew about the cyberbullying. I wondered what else he knew. “What were Leo and Sam fighting about the night before your husband disappeared?”
The texts. There had been two. The first had alluded to the fight. And then the second one: I’m sure Leo didn’t mean the things he said that night.
I realized then that Rico knew everything. Not everything as in the truth, because if he did, Sam would be home. This would be over. No, what Rico knew was all the “evidence” manufactured by the person targeting my family.
Anger had been my go-to emotion for years, but I had no room for it now. Fear and confusion forced it out.
“I don’t know anything about a fight,” I said. “I wasn’t home that night, remember?”
“You didn’t hear about it afterward?”
“We had more important things to discuss.” The night air was cold but too still and held an expectant edge. “You know about the social media posts.”
It wasn’t a question, and he supplied no answer. His broad face betrayed no emotion, his body as motionless as the air.
“They were faked, but most moms would say the same,” I said.
I could’ve expanded with examples of Leo’s kindness, or argued how the posts displayed a cruelty I’d never witnessed in him. It wouldn’t have swayed Rico, but it would’ve bought me a few minutes before my next confession. Because I knew I’d have to give the detective all the information if he was going to find Sam.
My cheeks burned, and I had to swallow twice before getting the words out.
“There was a photo too,” I said. “I’m not sure if you know about that, but I’m guessing you will. Someone will want you to know.”
I paused to steady my breathing.
“The number one was written on the back—three days, three numbers. I suppose I should’ve told you about it, but I didn’t want it to sway you in the wrong direction, and, if I’m being honest, I didn’t feel much like sharing a photo of my husband having sex with another woman. But I can get you that photo in the morning.”
Sam’s reputation. Our marriage. What was the point in protecting any of it at the expense of my son’s safety and Sam’s life?
Rico waited to make sure I’d finished, then asked, “How’d you get the photo?”
“My daughter found it in her backpack.”
“Where was the backpack?”
“In her cubby at school.”