Every muscle in her body tensed. Her heart began to pound with a new, unnamed fear. So you did go there . . .
“And there was more than just Bandeaux’s blood at the scene.”
“Someone else’s?” she asked, her knees nearly giving way as she felt the scars on her wrist grow tight.
“O-positive. We’ll be doing DNA analysis of it, so we’d like a blood sample from you.”
“You think I killed Josh.”
“We’re just trying to narrow the field.” But Reed’s eyes were cold, and even Detective Morrisette was grimmer than usual. No good cop–bad cop routine. Just the facts, ma’am.
“I’ll have my attorney contact you,” she said as they stepped over the threshold and she shut the door behind them. She was shaking inside, a headache pounding behind one eye, the same kind of pain slicing through her brain that preceded the blackouts that ate away huge chunks of her time.
The first time she realized that she had holes in her memory had been when she was a child, recovering from a sinus infection that had landed her in the hospital. She’d been six or seven at the time and had found herself on the school playground long after dark. Her mother had been frantic and she’d not been able to explain herself, couldn’t remember her whereabouts. No one had known how she’d missed the bus and lost track of time, not even Griffin, who had been the last person she’d seen, the one who had suggested they walk the three miles home.
Funny she should think of that now as she climbed the stairs and passed through her bedroom to the bathroom and noticed the slight discoloration on the carpet. What the hell had happened the night that Josh had died? Why had there been blood all over this room . . . and why had her type of blood been in Josh’s home?
Not that it proved she was there, she thought. Millions of people had O-positive blood. Including most of her family. And yet a new fear, deep-seated and dark, gripped her. Could she have . . . was she capable of . . . in one of her blackouts, could she have killed her husband?
Don’t even think that way! She held on to the sides of the sink for support and waited until she’d forced the panic back. Don’t let this get to you. Do something! Be proactive, for God’s sake! She found a bottle of Excedrin Migraine in the mirrored cabinet and popped two tablets, then walked into her office, sat at the desk and picked up the phone. She needed a lawyer, a defense attorney, and fast.
What about an alibi? Isn’t that what you really need?
“Oh, shut up,” she muttered as she sat at her desk chair and quickly scanned her e-mail. Nothing from Kelly or anyone else. Wondering how to get hold of her twin, Caitlyn dialed Amanda’s office, but it was after hours and a recorded message asked her to leave her name and number. “Great,” she muttered under her breath. She slammed the receiver down. Where the hell were her sisters when she needed them? Kelly was never around, and Amanda was oftentimes buried in her work. Well, she’d just have to unbury herself. Caitlyn couldn’t afford to wait. No telling what the police had up their sleeves.
Amanda had worked for the D.A.’s office for a couple of years before deciding the low pay, long hours and “working with every low-life slime who decided to crawl out from his personal, perverted rock” wasn’t for her. Years ago Amanda had seen the corporate light and transferred into domestic law, switching gears easily. Now she worked with low-life slimes when they wanted a divorce. But she would know the name of a good criminal defense attorney.
Caitlyn punched out Amanda’s home number and leaned back in her desk chair, waiting for yet another machine to pick up. “Come on, be home,” she said under her breath and heard a noise behind her. She froze. Fear crawled up her spine as she hazarded a glance over her shoulder only to see Oscar ambling into the office. Relief washed over her but she noticed her own reflection. The door was slightly ajar, the mirror hanging upon it catching her image as she sat in her desk chair. And she looked horrible. Frazzled. Undone. Her hair was mussed from countless times pushing it off her forehead, her complexion pale, dark smudges visible beneath her eyes. She shifted her gaze to Oscar. “Hurry up,” she whispered, patting her lap impatiently as a machine answered and Amanda’s recorded voice asked the callers to leave their names and numbers. The recorder beeped.
Oscar catapulted into her lap.
“Amanda? It’s Caitlyn,” she said, hating to leave this particular message. She scratched the dog behind his ears. “Look, I need your help. Unlike Mom, I do know that you’re not a criminal defense attorney, but I was hoping you could give the name and number of someone you would recommend—”
Click.
“Caitlyn?” Amanda asked, her voice worried. “Are you still there? I just walked in and heard you leaving a message. What’s going on?”
“The police were just here,” Caitlyn said, relieved to actually be speaking to her sister.
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah. Big time uh-oh. They want a DNA sample from me,” she said, hoping to hide the panic that was creeping up her spine. Her fingers clamped over the phone. “They seem to think I was at Josh’s that night. They’re not saying much, but I think they don’t believe that he committed suicide and that someone killed him, and even though they didn’t come out and tell me, I’m sure I’m the primary suspect and . . . and . . . I need a lawyer and oh, God, I can’t remember and—”
“Caitlyn! Get a grip!” Amanda snapped, then added more softly, “I’m sorry, but you’re scaring me to death and I can’t really follow what’s going on. Take a couple of deep breaths and start over, okay? Now, from the beginning, tell me what’s happening. Start with when the police arrived. Tell me everything.”
As best as she could, Caitlyn recounted the entire conversation. The horrid sense of panic that had been with her since the morning she’d woken up to a blood-smeared bedroom burrowed deeper as she recounted Detective Reed’s pointed questions and her own feeble answers. She began to shake inside. She was going to be accused of Josh’s murder, she was certain of it, and she couldn’t remember what she’d done that night.
“He didn’t charge me with anything, didn’t out and out accuse me, but . . . I’m sure he believes I did it.”
“What about the suicide angle? I thought he left a note . . . isn’t that right?”
“I don’t think the police believe it . . . maybe they think the killer left it . . . Oh, God, I don’t know.”
“Maybe this isn’t as bad as it seems,” Amanda said thoughtfully.
“Well, that’s a relief because it seems pretty damned bad to me.”
“I know, and I’d be lying if I said you weren’t a suspect. Geez, you could be the number-one suspect, but you’re not the only one. I don’t believe they’re narrowing the field as Reed told you. I think they’re concentrating on you.”