I clear my throat. “Is… is she okay?”
What a stupid question. Obviously, she’s not okay. There isn’t a detective sitting in front of my desk, asking me questions about her because she’s A-okay.
“She was found dead yesterday evening, Doctor,” hesays. “By some hikers. She was stabbed to death.”
I can barely find my voice. So much for Shelby’s second chance. “That… that’s awful.”
“And both her hands were severed.”
Oh God. I think I’m going to be sick. One patient of mine being found dead like that… okay, it’s possible it could be a coincidence. But two? There’s no way. And the detective knows it.
“Dr. Davis?” His voice sounds far away. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” I manage. I can’t fall apart like this—not in front of the detective. I don’t know what’s going on, but it won’t help me to panic. “I’m fine.”
Detective Barber reaches over and takes back the photograph he put on my desk. I notice he’s handling it carefully, touching just the edges. I wonder if he showed me that photograph so I would touch it and get my fingerprints on it. Or maybe I’m being paranoid. Either way, let him analyze my fingerprints. I’ve never committed a crime. And they’re not going to find my fingerprints on anything belonging to Amber or Shelby.
“She was reported missing two days ago,” he says. “She worked at an art gallery and she showed up for work Monday morning, but not Tuesday. So obviously, she disappeared sometime between leaving work on Monday evening and Tuesday morning.”
“Right,” I murmur.
“Can you account for your whereabouts during that time?”
“Yes,” I say. “I probably left the hospital around eighto’clock at night and then I went home.”
“And you live alone.”
“Yes.” I squeeze my knees with my sweaty hands. “My father is still in prison, right?”
“I think you would know if he wasn’t.” He keeps his eyes on mine. “Do you ever visit him there?”
“No. Never.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “How come? He’s your father, isn’t he?”
“He’s a monster. That’s how come.”
I watch his expression. He’s hoping that I’ll crack, slip up. But he doesn’t have anything on me.
Part of me wants to tell the detective about that letter I found in my kitchen. The one from my father. Maybe that has something to do with it all. I’m not going to pretend this is all a crazy coincidence.
But I don’t trust this detective. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. If I tell him about the letter, he’s going to twist it around to make me seem guilty. After all, my father is in prison. He’s not slipping letters under my door.
“It’s very sad,” I finally say. “I feel terrible for Shelby’s family. This is tragic.”
Barber rubs a finger along the gray stubble on his jaw. “You know,” he says. “I still remember your father’s trial. After he pleaded guilty, he gave that speech about how sorry he was. About how he wished he could give his life to bring those girls back. And you know what? It almost sounded like it wasn’t complete bullshit.” He raises his eyebrows at me. “Are you as good at telling lies as he is?”
My cheeks grow hot. “Detective, I think this is enough.I’m going to have to ask you to leave. And if you want to speak to me again, it will be in the presence of my lawyer. I mean it this time.”
Now I have to get a lawyer. Great.
Barber shifts in his chair. He’s sizing me up, trying to figure out how far he can push me. If he knows anything, he’ll realize he can’t push me very far. Just because he’s a detective, it doesn’t mean he has the right to harass me at my workplace. Finally, he gets out of his seat.
“We just want to find out what happened to Shelby,” he says. “If you think of any information at all that would be helpful, give me a call.”
“Right,” I say through my teeth.
The detective gives me one last long look, then he turns around and leaves my office.
