The article underneath spelled out exactly what Edward had told the police: The night of the killing, he had waited outside of the business center until their father had left his office. Edward’s intention had been to confront the man, but William had collapsed before any argument ensued. When it became clear that the man was suffering some kind of stroke, Edward had decided that instead of dialing 911, he would finish what the neurological storm was starting.

A winch had helped him get the two-hundred-pound deadweight onto the back of a Red & Black Stables truck, and then Edward had driven out into the vacant woods at the shore of the river and awkwardly dragged the still-breathing man through the underbrush. Just as he’d been about to push their father into the water, he had paused, gone back for a knife . . . and returned to cut off the finger. After that, he had shoved William into the storm-swollen current and returned to Easterly to bury the gruesome souvenir out in the front ivy bed as a tribute to his long-suffering mother and family.

And that was that.

When the finger had been discovered and the police had gotten involved, Edward had tried to cover things up by erasing the security-camera footage recorded from the back courtyard. He’d been stupid about trying to hide his tracks, however. The detectives had traced the computer sign-in at the time of the deletion to him, and that was when he’d confessed.

Lane shoved the newspaper away.

So that was where they were now. The son everyone loved in jail for the murder of a man no one missed.

As swaps went, it was a grossly unfair one, but sometimes, that was where life landed you. Bad fortune, as with good, was not always driven by virtue or free will, and it was best to remember these things were not personal.

Otherwise, you were liable to lose your damn mind.

FOUR

“What in the hell are you talking about?” Edward demanded.

The acoustics in the interrogation room were like that of a shower stall, the bald walls and general lack of furnishings providing an outstanding echo chamber for his voice to racquetball itself around.

And okay, perhaps his tone was a bit strident.

But this was the thing with Shelby. She was used to dealing with big, unpredictable animals as part of her day job—and that meant that she wasn’t scared of much. Certainly not a crippled husk of a man whom she’d already had to deal with drunk too many times for his liking.

“I want to know why you lied to the police,” she reiterated.

Edward glared at her. “How did you come down here?”

“I drove.”

“Not what I’m asking. How is it that you were able to get into this jail after midnight?”

“Is that important?”

Time to cut the shit. “What did you tell Ramsey?”

She shrugged. “I said I needed to talk to you. That was all. When the police was at the cottage with you that day, he gave me his telephone number and told me if I needed help to find him. I knew you wasn’t going to take my calls, and I also knew you wouldn’t want anyone seein’ me coming or going. The reporters is all over the place in the daytime.”

“I didn’t lie to the police. Everything I said about how I murdered my father is the truth.”

“No, it isn’t—”

“Bullshit—”

“Don’t you dare swear in front of me. You know I hate it.” She marched over and sat across from him, like his cuss word had meant she could take her gloves off. “You told them that you hurt your ankle when you was draggin’ the body from the truck to the river. You said Dr. Qalbi had to come out to see you because of it.”

“Exactly. You were there when he examined me.”

“That wasn’t how you hurt yourself. You tripped and fell in the stable. I saw when it happened, and well you know it. I helped you back to the cottage.”

“I am very confident you are mis-remembering how the injury occurred—”

“I am not.”

Edward tried the whole sitting-back thing again and got no further than he did with his first recline attempt. “My dear girl, you’ve seen me naked. You know exactly how . . . shall we say . . . compromised I am. I have fallen many, many times—and may I remind you that just because you were not out in those woods with me and that body does not mean I didn’t hurt myself there. What is it that people wonder about trees falling and no one being around to hear the sound? I can assure you, when they crash, they make plenty of noise without the benefit of your monitoring.”

“You lied.”

He rolled his eyes. “If I did, and I most certainly did not, what does it matter? I turned myself in for murdering my father. I confessed. I told them I did it and how—and guess what? The evidence backs me up. So I can assure you there is not going to be a lot of conversation about my ankle.”

“I don’t think you did it. And I think you’re lying to cover for someone else.”

Edward laughed with an edge. “Who died and made you Columbo? FYI, you’re going to need a new wardrobe that includes a raincoat and the nub of a cigar.”

“I saw how drunk you was the night he were killed. You was passed out. You most certainly wasn’t driving yourself anywhere, much less movin’ a dead body around.”

“I beg to differ. We alcoholics rebound very quickly—”

“None of the trucks was gone. I sleep over Barn B and they was all parked right under my window in a row. I would have heard the engine start—and what’s more, that winch you was talking about? It was broken.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Then how did I use it to get my father’s body on the goddamn trunk bed—”

She banged the table. “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain—”

“Annnnd we’re still on that, are we? Look, I’m a murderer. I have very low standards for conduct and I’ll vain all the hell I want.”

Shelby leaned in, and as those eyes of hers clashed with his own, he wished he had never hired her. “You are not a killer.”

He was the one who broke the game of ocular chicken. “It appears as if we are at an impasse. I will deny everything that you are saying and stick with my original story because that is what happened—as your precious God only knows. The question then appears to be, what are you going to do about this?”

When she didn’t reply, he nonchalantly glanced back over at her. “Well?”

As she dropped her eyes and twisted her work-rough hands, he took it as a skirmish won. “Don’t do this, Edward. Please . . . whoever killed ’im, let them do the time. It ain’t right, this whole thing ain’t right.”

Oh, for godsakes, she was starting to cry. And not in the manner of a hysteric he could write off, but as someone who was in deep pain and feeling helpless to right an injustice.

Christ, it made him wish she would hop around the room and rant and rave. Maybe jump up on the table and scream.

“Shelby.”

When she refused to look at him, and instead rubbed her nose with all the elegance of a hunting dog, he felt worse. She was, he had come to believe, a real person. Not one of those fake cutouts he had spent so much time having to socialize with back in his old life. Shelby Landis had no more time for airs and emotions than he did.

So this was legitimate.

And also highly inconvenient.

Edward glanced up at the security camera that was mounted in the far corner. When he had been questioned in this room by that detective, Merrimack, there had been a little red light blinking on its undercarriage. Now there was not.

Good thing, he thought as he sat forward and put his hand on Shelby’s forearm.

“It ain’t right.” She sniffled. “And I spent a lotta time around ‘ain’t right’ with my dad. Kinda done with it, t’ be honest.”

“Look at me.” He squeezed her arm. “Come on, now. If you don’t, I’m going to start taking it personally.”

When she just mumbled something, he gave her another squeeze. “Shelby? Let me see those eyes.”

Finally, she lifted her head, and damn it, he wished he hadn’t made her. That sheen of tears punched him in the chest.