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“Eh—that’s not what I hear. Story goes, you were there, and then you weren’t, and then you left before she jumped.

You spoke to her that evening, you hadn’t spoken to her in days, you tried to stop her, you didn’t know anything.

What’s the truth, Sibel?” Only some of that was in her written and recorded statements—the inconsistencies weren’t quite so striking, officially.

If they were, the red flags wouldn’t have been overlooked, and she would have been a suspect.

But I read between the lines, connected some dots—and used mother’s diary entry as the true timeline, which doesn’t match what she gave the cops at all.

Silence settles heavily between us as she carefully finds the right words. “I wasn’t there when she died, Rhue. I can’t help. Sorry.”

“Do you think she killed herself?” I ask, watching her expression.

Her face freezes in a carefully-controlled mask. “That’s what the police said,” she said.

“But you knew her better than most. Are you telling me she’s the kind to kill herself when faced with a moral dilemma?”

She looks startled at that. “What moral dilemma?”

“A woman was raped by her husband in her house,” I tell her.

Shame creeps up her neck, red hot, as her eyes darken.

“She found out about it. She said she would do something about it—didn’t she?”

She looks away from me as tears spill over her lashes.

“Then—instead of doing anything—she killed herself. Does that sound like the Roxanne you knew?”

She shakes her head but doesn’t say anything.

“Sibel—did my father kill her?”

She freezes and the fine hairs on her arms stand upright as chills run over her skin. She presses her lips tight together and crosses her arms.

“You’re scared of him, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am,” she says, her voice a harsh whisper. “You should be, too.”

“I can beat him,” I tell her, throwing a whole helping of confidence behind my words. “But I need your help. What happened that night?”

She looks at me, her dark eyes traveling over my face. I know she can see Julian in my features—everyone can. I just hope she can see Roxanne, too.

“I got a call from her,” she says in voice that’s almost a whisper.

“She sounded scared. She told me she needed me to meet her at the house immediately, then drive her somewhere. Before I could ask her anything, she screamed and hung up. I got there and I ran inside, up to her office—and Julian was stood there, on the balcony, furious. He told me to get out.”

My heart is racing. I feel sick. Suspecting him is one thing—hearing evidence like this is something else entirely.

“I ran away,” she whispered. “He scared me. I left—parked down the street—I tried to call her again—but her phone just kept ringing and ringing. Then the ambulance screamed past—and the cops.” She swallows hard, squeezing her eyes shut. “She was dead.”

“Did you tell the cops?”

“I tried,” she whispers. “I was hysterical. I thought it was my fault, that I should have argued with Julian—I thought surely, she must still have been alive—surely, I could have saved her—talked her out of jumping.”

“You do think she jumped, then.”

She swallows and shrugs. “He knew how to push her buttons, Rhue.” The timer dings and she waves dismissively at it.

“Forget about that. I know it’s hard to think about—it’s hard to work out the truth.

Yes, I think your dad killed your mom—and yes, I think she killed herself.

Maybe he didn’t literally push her, but his actions and words had been pushing her closer to the edge for years. ”

She gives me a small, sad smile. “Your mother put on a good front for you kids and her clients. She never let Julian see how deeply he hurt her. But I saw, Rhue. I saw. And I didn’t do enough to help her. I guess, in that way—maybe I killed her, too.”

Why do women keep saying that? My dad’s the bastard, not them. But Madison, now Sibel, try to put themselves there, make themselves responsible.

“You didn’t,” I tell her. What else can I say? I pull a card out of my wallet and glance around, assessing the million-dollar home. “Nice place. If you’re ever in the market for something less oppressive on your wallet, let me know.”

I place my card on the countertop and tap a finger on it.

“I really appreciate you talking to me, Sibel. And—it might not mean a whole lot coming from me—but I’m sorry. For everything you went through.”

She swallows hard and squeezes her eyes shut, pushing twin waterfalls of tears down her cheeks. “You should go,” she whispers. “And don’t come back. Ever.”

I don’t press the issue. I’m getting a clearer picture of what happened that night—but I know it’s going to take a miracle to find someone willing to blame my dad outright.

I don’t believe my mother took a swan dive under her own power, no matter how many buttons he pushed. She wasn’t like that, damn it!

A familiar and unpleasant sensation returns as soon as I’m settled behind the wheel.

Someone’s watching.

I’m starting to get ridiculously paranoid. Even after repeatedly checking the mirrors and looking around, I fail to see anything out of the ordinary. But maybe I’ll take a lot of extra turns on my way to Madison’s—just in case.