Page 9

The cold chill of the visiting room at the county prison seeped into my bones as I sat across from Sarah. Her hands trembled on the table, cuffs clinking softly with each uncontrolled movement. The fluorescent lights above cast a harsh glow on her pale features, deepening the dark circles under her eyes.

”Sarah,” I began, my voice steady despite the cold, ”tell me what happened.”

She looked up, her gaze flickering with fragments of frustration and fear. ”I don”t know,” she stammered, words choked by sobs that shook her slender frame. She buried her face in her hands, shoulders heaving as she tried to compose herself. Little rivers of tears escaped between her fingers, painting wet streaks on the tabletop.

”Sarah,” I pressed gently but firmly, needing clarity amidst the chaos of her emotions. ”You need to talk to me. I”m your friend in this. Tell me what happened last night.”

”I didn”t do it,” she finally managed, peering up through moist eyelashes. ”I… he must have killed himself.”

”What do you mean?” My question hung in the air like the buzz of the overhead lights.

”He was already dead when I arrived at the house. He was on the bed, shot in the head.”

I pulled out my notepad, flipping to the page where I”d scribbled notes from the police report. I had gone into the database and pulled it out myself since Detective Ryan refused to let me in on his investigation. I had read through his report and wasn”t very impressed, to put it mildly. ”According to this,” I said, tapping the paper, ”you were angry. You went to his house because you were mad, and then—you shot him.”

Sarah”s hands clenched into fists. ”No! That”s not….”

”The neighbor,” I continued, relentless in pursuit of the truth, ”found you with the gun still in your hand. How can you explain that?”

Her eyes darted away, then back to mine, filled with a desperate plea for understanding. ”I was holding it between two fingers. I picked it up from the floor,” she confessed, miming the action with a shaky hand. ”I don”t know why. It was just a reaction.”

”Sarah,” I sighed, closing my notepad with a soft thud, ”the report also states that you were very intoxicated when it happened. How can anyone be expected to believe your story under those circumstances?”

”Because…” Her voice trailed off, and she swallowed hard before trying again. ”My daughter was there.”

”Victoria?” I asked, probing further.

”Yes.” A small spark of maternal determination flickered in her eyes. ”She was in her bed when it happened. She must have heard the gun go off before I entered the house. She must know the truth.”

”Did you tell the detective this?”

”Of course I did!” Sarah”s voice cracked with indignation. ”But he wouldn”t even talk to her. He just dismissed it.”

I nodded slowly, absorbing the gravity of her claim. If Victoria had indeed witnessed something, it could change everything. Yet, whether it would exonerate her mother or condemn her further remained a mystery—one that I was now determined to unravel.