ed and eventually went to stand at the sink. He slid his hands, palms out, into the seat pockets of his jeans and stared through the window into her backyard.

“There’s a broken flowerpot on the steps,” he said. “I found it last night.”

“That must’ve been awful for you.”

“Naw, it was just a flowerpot. I got over it.”

“I was talking about being considered a suspect.”

He turned his head and spoke to her from over his shoulder. “I got over it.”

“Did you?”

Hearing the doubt behind the question, he turned back to the window, pulled his hands from his pockets, and placed them on the edge of the sink, leaning into it. “Have you ever been questioned by the police?”

“Other than being stopped for speeding, no.”

“It makes you feel guilty, even though you’re not. It’s the loneliest, most isolating feeling in the world.”

“Your father—”

“Couldn’t be bothered to go with me to the police station.”

“You had Gall Hathaway in your corner.”

“The police questioned us separately. He wasn’t in on those initial interrogations.”

“If I recall correctly, he retained a lawyer for you.”

“Not right away. We didn’t think a lawyer would be necessary. During those first couple of shakedowns I was all alone.”

“They came down hard on you.”

“You could say, yeah. He thought for sure I’d killed your sister.”

“The detective, you mean?”

“Moody. You called him Monroe in your book, but his name was Dale Moody. Soon as he got my name from your folks—who also thought I was the culprit—he came to my house, woke up me and my old man, asked if he could talk to me about Susan. But he didn’t exactly put it in the form of a polite request. Till then I didn’t even know that she’d been murdered. I learned that from him when he started trying to strong-arm a confession out of me.”

“What was that like, being pressured to make a confession?”

He left the window and went to the fridge, took out the pitcher of tea and brought it back to the table. She shook her head no when he held the pitcher above her glass, so he poured himself a refill, then resumed his seat across from her. However, instead of taking a drink, he placed the fingers of both hands against the glass and rubbed them up and down.

“Dent?”

“What?”

“I asked you a question.”

“I heard you.”

“Well, how did you feel?”

“How do you think? I felt like shit. Enough said.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

Tags: Sandra Brown Mystery
Source: readsnovelonline.net