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Finally, the house was quiet, save for the faint hum of the vacuum as Madeline worked in the rear of the home. Dipping my spoon into a bowl of granola and lactose-free yogurt, I stared at my phone’s screen, watching an old Leewood Folcrum interview. The segment was titled “The Worst Father in America,” but I would disagree with that.

It was filmed more than twenty years ago, when he’d been on trial for the murders. At the time, he was thirty-four, with dark-brown hair, intense features, and a presence you couldn’t help but be drawn to. The interviewer, a voluptuous blonde with bright-red lipstick, was clearly attracted to him. Her lust was telegraphed in every flip of her hair, every forward lean.

“At the time of the event, you were a single father, raising a young girl. Can you tell me what happened with your wife?”

I didn’t blame the interviewer for wanting Leewood. There was something incredibly magnetic about him, and it wasn’t hampered by the prison jumpsuit or the deep lines of stress on his face. If anything, the effect was enhanced by the elements of danger. The annoyed looks ... the strained, raspy voice ... it all worked together in a beautiful way.

I readjusted my seat on the upholstered chair and rested my elbow on the round kitchen table, pausing the video at a rare moment when Leewood looked directly into the camera. It felt like he was looking into my soul—a tie between us—and I could imagine him nodding at me, encouraging my line of thinking.

He wasn’t that far away. From my house to his prison, it was less than seventy miles. I could hop in my Range Rover and, by lunchtime, be sitting across from him and staring into that handsome face. Reaching out and touching it, assuming we didn’t have a wall of protective glass between us.

What did he look like now? I hovered my finger above the screen, tracing it over the lines of his face. Probably even more handsome. Salt-and-pepper hair. A beard, maybe?

I needed to know but was terrified at the idea of visiting him. He might not even accept the visitor request. Or worse, he would, but he would dismiss me. Turn away at the sight of me and leave me sitting at the table, like a loser without a prom date.

I swallowed at the thought. The fear of rejection was one of the reasons why I hadn’t initiated contact. There were certain things I didn’t handle well, and rejection was one of them.

“My wife ... she left us two years ago.”

“‘Left’?”

“She—she took her own life. I was at work. I found her when I got home.”

“Given the recent events, many are saying that you killed her. Did you kill your wife, Mr. Folcrum?”

I watched, fascinated, as he glared at the interviewer. His hand, which had been loosely curled on one knee, tightened into a fist. “You know I didn’t.”

“How would I know that?” she asked innocently. This woman was lucky she was in such a protected environment, the camera rolling, prison guards at the ready.

He didn’t respond, and she waited, sitting back in her chair and crossing her long, skinny legs. She was wearing a short skirt, and the red fabric rose up on her thighs. Completely inappropriate for an interview with a supposed killer.

I got up to refill my water because I already knew how this was going to go, and not just because this was the third time I’d seen the interview. You couldn’t outwait this man. He had all the time in the world, while she had only sixty minutes, with almost half of those dedicated to commercials.

As I pulled the glass carafe out of the fridge, her voice sounded from my iPad’s speaker.

“You’re referring to the time of death? That was determined to be between two and four o’clock, which was when you were at work?”

Silence.

She sighed. “Lee, can you walk us through how your wife died?”

“I’d rather not. You have it all written down there, on your little pad. Why don’t you tell them?”

“It’s not common, a woman killing herself with her morning coffee.”

“Please get to your point. It’s not a day I like to relive.”

I sat back down at the table, glancing at his face as I poured the ice-cold water into my glass. He always looked grim during this part of the video, as if in pain.

The police had never looked at him as a suspect in his wife’s death. His alibi had been ironclad. He’d been at a construction site forty-five minutes away, with a half dozen witnesses. He’d also been distraught over her death—a stark contrast to the Folcrum Party aftermath. Some pointed to this as a sign of his guilt in the party murders. Others said there was no such thing as coincidences and that the latter pointed to his guilt in the former. They said that maybe Leewood wasn’t the one who dropped a lethal amount of pain meds into his wife’s morning coffee, but he either drove her to do it or he hired someone else to commit the deadly act.

My cell phone rang, and I glanced at the display, then sighed. Pausing the video, I answered the call. “Hey.”

As Grant spoke, I closed the window, then went into the browser settings and deleted all the history associated with my search and the videos.

No one needed to know what I watched. Especially not Grant.