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As I drove away from the prison, my tires kicked up a cloud of dirt, and my doubts followed me like unwelcome passengers. I couldn”t shake the image of Sarah”s glazed eyes as we spoke during the interview. A thick fog of confusion engulfed me as I tried to understand how she could still function on that fatal night with such a high level of alcohol in her system. Most people would have blacked out, but she seemed to have a remarkable tolerance. She was actually able to drive her car to his house.

I couldn”t shake off the vivid images from the witness accounts. Her car careened down the lane, leaving a trail of debris in its wake before colliding with a trash can, the metallic thud echoing through the neighborhood. And then her body stumbling out and staggering toward his house. It was clear that she was severely intoxicated, an understatement to describe her condition.

How could I believe her when she told me what happened? But for some reason, I did. When my mind told me not to, my heart told me otherwise. Something wasn’t right about this whole thing.

I believed her. I didn’t know why, but I did.

Her rap sheet flashed through my mind. She had been in the hands of the police several times before. Once from being pulled over and getting a DUI, the second time when she showed up at her old house, wasted, and started to scream at and attack Steven, her estranged husband, and the neighbors had enough of her. That didn”t bode well for her defense—not exactly a pristine record.

I fumbled for my phone; the number for the Cape Canaveral Police Station had already been pulled up. I pressed call and waited anxiously as the line rang. Finally, Detective Ryan answered with a heavy sigh, his voice sounding drained.

”Agent Thomas. Twice in one day? To what do I owe the honor this time?” he said with a mocking voice.

”The daughter,” I said, gripping the steering wheel tighter. This guy rubbed me the wrong way. If it was his arrogance or his laziness, I didn”t know—probably both.

“What about her?” His voice was flat, disinterested.

”Why didn”t you interview her?” I asked. ”She was in the house. She was a potential witness. If Sarah claims the gun went off before she entered the house, she could have heard it. Or at least she must have seen something. Didn”t she run to her dad”s bedroom when the shot was fired? Or even if she was too scared to, she might have peered through a crack in the door or at least heard her mother enter?”

Laughter crackled through the line. My grip on the phone tightened, knuckles whitening. What was it with this guy?

”What”s so funny?” My voice was sharper than intended.

”Know anything about the daughter?” he shot back.

”No, why?” I felt tension coiling within me.

”Find out yourself if you”re such a sharp FBI detective.”

Click. The line went dead.

Fury bubbled up in my chest, sending a burst of heat through my body. My clenched fists slammed into the steering wheel, the sound reverberating in the small space of the car. Embarrassment flooded in next, making me feel small and foolish. I took deep breaths, trying to quell the tumultuous emotions raging inside me. But I knew this wasn”t the end of it… not by a long shot.