Apples Never Fall

“Mum, you need to tell me the name of whoever is in charge of the investigation. Right now.”

“But why?”

“Because I saw Joy Delaney on Valentine’s Day.”

Chapter 62

The street was deathly quiet as they pulled into the driveway. Not even the sound of a leaf blower in the distance.

As they walked toward the house Christina’s phone began to ring, a strident sound in the silence. She flicked it to voicemail.

“Good morning,” sighed Stan Delaney when he opened the door to them, as if they were unwelcome but expected visitors, which Christina guessed was exactly what they were. He was unshaven today, bare feet, in shorts and a black T-shirt. “Come in.”

He led them down the hallway, past the framed photos. There was a faded gap where the framed photo they’d seized had hung. The house smelled of toast.

They went into the living room where they’d had all their previous discussions. Stan gestured at the couch.

“You haven’t found her, have you?” he said suddenly.

Afterward Christina would think back to that moment and wonder if this was when she should have known that something wasn’t right, because while his face most certainly showed fear, which she’d expect, it also showed hope, and why would he be hopeful?

Yet even if she’d stopped to second-guess herself she would have been reassured by the good solid evidence that had led her to this point. Her gut instinct had been supported by piece after piece of compelling evidence.

This was not the time for second-guessing.

She spoke clearly. “Stan Delaney, you’re under arrest for the murder of Joy Margaret Delaney.”

He didn’t flinch. His face hardened and smoothed, as if he were slowly but perceptibly turning to stone.

“You don’t have to say or do anything unless you want to. Anything you do say or do will be—”

Ethan said, “Christina.” He had his head tilted as if he were listening to something. “I think there might be—”

She ignored him and continued speaking to Stan. “Anything you do say or do will be recorded and may later be used as evidence. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” said Stan. “I understand that.”

“Detective Khoury,” said Ethan formally, a bit louder.

“What?” She felt a spasm of irritation.

Ethan lifted his chin to indicate something in the hallway behind her.

Christina turned around at the same time as a small woman with white shoulder-length hair came into the room, removing a backpack from her shoulders. A set of keys dangled from her finger.

Christina had been thinking so much about this woman and her life and her choices, it was as discombobulating as seeing a glamorous movie star in the flesh.

Stan Delaney walked like a man in a dream toward his wife and lifted her right off her feet. Her keys crashed to the floor.

Stan cried, his hand cradling the back of his wife’s head. He cried like a man cries when he has little or no experience of crying: dry sobs that racked his body.

It was the first time Christina had seen Stan Delaney, the man she wanted to convict for his wife’s murder, display even a modicum of emotion.

“What in the world?” said Joy Delaney.

Chapter 63

VALENTINE’S DAY