“Of course.”
“Talked to him?”
“Yes,” she said.
“What about?”
“I can’t remember! It’s all kind of a blur,” she admitted, turning up her palms as she remembered the horror of learning of her husband’s death. No, she didn’t love him any longer, no she didn’t trust him, but no, she didn’t really wish him dead. She’d just wanted him to leave her alone, to give her some peace, to quit hurting her in every way possible. But his death, the fire. The suspicion that she’d somehow either killed him herself or set him up had nearly pushed her over the edge emotionally. Yes, she’d seen Neville in that time, but had she really talked to him? She didn’t know. Her brothers had, she thought. The last one to see him was Oliver, and that was just before Oliver’s breakdown and stay in the psychiatric ward where he’d found Jesus, where through prayer, God had spoken with him, called him into the priesthood.
Obviously Paterno had heard all about it. Just as obviously he wasn’t buying a word of it.
Paterno shifted on the couch. “Isn’t that odd? Your brother just up and vanishing?”
“Extremely odd.” She sighed, glanced out the window to the encroaching night. “I…I don’t get it. Never have, but during that time I was distracted.”
“Because of the murder charges.”
“Yes!” She glared at him and the rage she’d felt at the district attorney, at the police department, at the damned system, swept through her all over again. “My entire life was turned upside down. My husband was dead. Murdered. Accused of being a serial arsonist and I’m accused of killing him? On top of that my brother goes missing and no one can find him.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Look, Detective Paterno, this is all old news. I don’t know what happened to Neville. No one in our family does. Of course you know my brother Shea because you replaced him in this investigation, and my brother Aaron is a private investigator. They both, along with everyone in the family, have tried to locate Neville.”
“And nothing?”
“Nothing.” She looked up at him, felt her headache returning. “I thought you were going to ask me about Mary Beth’s murder.”
The look he sent her was filled with the patience of a methodical but determined man, one who would never give up.
“How did Mary Beth feel when her cousin died and you were on trial for his murder?”
“She blamed me for his death,” Shannon admitted. “The whole Carlyle family did, especially Liam. He and Ryan were the same age, played on the same football team, were best friends.”
“Along with your brother Robert.”
“Robert was in their class, too.” She nodded, scooted back in the chair, resigned herself to putting up with a few more questions.
“Tight little group?”
“Most of the time.” High school seemed a lifetime ago.
“Mary Beth testified at your trial.”
Shannon closed her eyes. “Everyone did.” She remembered Mary Beth on the stand, her eyes wet with tears as she testified she’d heard Shannon say she wished her husband were dead. Then Liam had echoed the same words, more vehemently, while extolling Ryan’s virtues. Kevin had been quieter but had stared directly at Shannon with such hatred she’d shivered inside, and Margaret, ever the devout, had been visibly shaking, making the sign of the cross repeatedly as she told the court her only cousin’s marriage had been rocky.
Of course they hadn’t known Ryan had abused her. Hadn’t believed him capable of such violence. But then few had.
“Your husband”—Paterno’s voice brought her back to the present—“worked with your brothers in the Santa Lucia Fire Department.”
“Yes.”
“And Liam Carlyle, too?”
“That’s correct.”
“And after the fire that took Robert Carlyle’s
life, not only did Liam quit, your brother Neville did, too. Then a few weeks later Neville disappeared. And you have no idea where he is?”
“I’ve already told you: no. I wish I did, but I don’t. The truth is that I suspect something happened to him.”
“Foul play?”