Webb and Moen stand on Becky Harris’s front step and ring the bell. They both feel that she is still holding something back, that she knows more than she’s telling.
Her car is sitting in the driveway. The day is overcast and threatens rain. Webb rings the bell again, flashing an impatient look at Moen.
Finally the door opens. Becky looks like she hasn’t slept much. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail as if she didn’t want to bother with it. She’s wearing yoga pants and a shapeless sweater.
‘What do you want?’ she asks.
‘May we come in?’ Webb asks politely.
‘What for?’
‘We have a few more questions.’
She sighs and opens the door reluctantly.
Webb wonders about her change of mood. The day before she had been weepy and terrified of exposure, but today she seems resigned. She’s had a long, probably sleepless night to think about it. Perhaps she’s realizing that it’s inevitable that her indiscretions will come out. She leads them into the living room. She doesn’t ask them to sit down or offer them anything; it’s clear she doesn’t want them here. He can’t blame her. She’s been sleeping with her neighbour, now the chief suspect in a murder investigation.
The two detectives sit down on the sofa; Becky finally slumps down in an armchair angled across from them.
‘We appreciate that this isn’t easy for you,’ Webb begins. Becky watches him uneasily, her eyes darting to Moen as if for support, and then back to him. ‘But we think there’s more that you can tell us.’
‘I told you everything already,’ Becky says. ‘I don’t know anything about Amanda’s murder.’ She shifts restlessly in her chair. ‘I told you I don’t think he did it. Someone else must have done it.’
‘It’s just that we feel you’re keeping something from us, Becky,’ Webb says. ‘There’s something you’re not telling us.’ She looks back at him with a stony, almost angry expression, but her hands are fidgeting in her lap. He notes that the skin around the nails is picked raw.
‘I spoke to him yesterday afternoon, over the fence,’ she says finally. He waits patiently. She looks down at her lap. ‘He was outside, in the backyard. I saw him, and opened the back door. He called me over.’
She seems to think for a moment, as if deciding what to say. Webb already doesn’t trust the truth to come out of Becky’s mouth, but some edited version of it.
‘He asked me if I thought he’d killed Amanda. I told him of course not. He told me he didn’t kill her, and I said I believed him. I told him that you knew about us. That I was worried about my fingerprints in his bedroom, and that my husband would find out – that it might ruin my marriage, destroy my family.’ Her eyes are starting to fill up. She puts her hands up to her face, covers her mouth. Webb finds himself staring at her ragged cuticles.
‘Did he say anything else?’ he prods, when she hasn’t spoken for a while.
She shakes her head. ‘Not that I remember.’ She sniffles and then looks up at them. ‘My husband’s coming home tonight. This is all going to come out, isn’t it?’
Webb says, ‘The truth has a way of coming out.’
She looks at him bitterly. ‘Then if it does, I hope all of it does. I hope you find the real killer and leave Robert alone. Because I don’t think he did it.’ She pauses as if she’s gathering herself. Something in her face has changed, as if she has come to some kind of decision. ‘There’s something else I have to tell you.’
Webb leans forward, elbows on knees, and looks at her intently. ‘What’s that?’
‘I know Amanda was seeing someone else.’
‘How do you know that?’ Webb asks, feeling a prickle of excitement.
‘I saw them together, and I knew. I didn’t want to tell you, because I know him, and I know he couldn’t have killed Amanda either. I knew you’d just go after him like you’ve gone after Robert, when she was probably murdered by some nutcase somewhere, not killed by her husband, or the man she was seeing, who may have been unfaithful, but wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘Becky, who did you see Amanda with?’
She sighs heavily, regretfully. ‘It was Paul Sharpe. His wife, Olivia, is a friend of mine. They live down the street,’ she says miserably, ‘at number eighteen.’
‘Tell us what you saw, Becky,’ Detective Webb urges.
Becky is sick at what she’s about to do, but feels she has no choice. Like the detective says, the truth will come out eventually. She’s telling the truth now, no more, no less. ‘I saw Paul and Amanda together one night, a short time before Amanda disappeared. It was raining, and they were sitting in Amanda’s car. It was about nine o’clock at night, and I was leaving the movie theatre downtown. They were in a parking lot. There’s a bar across from the parking lot. I wondered if they’d been in the bar together.’
‘And …’
She thinks back, trying to remember every detail. ‘They were in the front seat – she was in the driver’s seat. There was a light in the parking lot shining on them so I could see them quite clearly. I was so shocked at seeing them together, I stopped in my tracks and stared for a minute, but they were so intent on one another that they didn’t notice me.’
‘You’re absolutely sure it was them?’
‘I’m certain. Their faces were close together at first. I thought they might kiss. But then, after a minute, they seemed to be arguing.’
‘Go on.’
‘He was saying something to her, as if he were angry, and she laughed at him and pulled away and he grabbed her arm.’
‘So you think they were seeing each other?’ Webb asks.
She nods. ‘That’s what it looked like. They seemed … intimate. Why else would they be there together?’ She looks down at her lap. ‘I felt awful for Olivia. She’s a good friend of mine. Amanda always struck me as a flirt, but I never would have guessed that Paul would cheat on Olivia.’
‘Can you be more specific about the date?’
She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to remember. Finally she opens them and says, ‘It was a Wednesday – it must have been September twentieth.’ She watches Moen jot it down.
‘Did you see them together any other time?’
She shakes her head. ‘No.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?’ Detective Webb asks.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘But I don’t think Paul is capable of harming anybody. And Olivia’s a friend. I hate to do this to her.’
‘Did you ever mention this to Robert Pierce?’
‘No, absolutely not.’
‘You sure about that?’ Webb presses.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Do you happen to know where Paul Sharpe works?’ Moen asks.
‘Yes. Fanshaw Pharmaceuticals – the same company as my husband. On Water Street, downtown.’ She watches Moen write it down.
‘Is there anything else you’re holding back?’ Webb asks; she hears the sarcasm in his voice.
She looks right at him and says, ‘No, that’s it.’