I'm sitting across from Cal. Ray is leaning against the wall parallel with the steel table.

“No.” I'm guessing that they're bluffing. If they had my prints, I would have been arrested. Instead, I am in Interview Room B having a voluntary—which doesn’t feel very voluntary—chat.

“So you never went inside the house?”

“Never.”

“Not once?”

“No.”

“Never were invited in, never had a sandwich, never opened the refrigerator?”

My stomach tightens. “No. Never.”

“What time is it?” I ask. Cell phones aren't allowed in “voluntary” interviews. I would get it back, I was reassured by the lady who took it. It had been 3:43 when I'd signed the form and handed it over. That had been more than five minutes ago.

The door opens and a cop walks in. Hands Ray a piece of paper, who in turn hands it to Cal. Cal's goatee stretches wide. “Well, well, well.”

I lean forward.

They had been bluffing. They hadn't gotten the results back yet. Apparently, it takes exactly twenty-four hours to match fingerprints.

“Guess whose prints are all over that house?”

Shit.

“A partial on the hood of the car. A partial on the tire of the car. A partial on the handle of the refrigerator. A full on the closet door in the guest bedroom. A full on the sliding glass door.”

“How did you get my prints?”

“Were you not listening? They were all over the house.”

“Yes, I was listening,” I grunt. “How did you get my prints, the ones you matched those to? I've never been arrested. I have nothing on file.” I glance at Ray. “If, by chance, you took my prints off a cup that you illegally stole from my house, you'd better believe that won't hold up in court.”

“Of course that wouldn't hold up in court,” Cal laughs. “We got your prints off your cell phone. You know that form you signed that you didn't read?”

Crap.

“So I'm gonna ask again. Have you ever been inside the house before?”

“Yes.”

“Were you in the house three nights ago?”

“Yes. But she wasn't murdered three nights ago. She was murdered four nights ago.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I heard her scream.”

...

“Connor Sullivan?” scoffs Cal. “As in the President of the United States?”

I nod.

He looks at Ray. She shakes her head.

“I swear, I heard a loud scream and then a minute later a man walked out the front door and directly underneath the streetlamp. It was Connor Sullivan.”

“Getting into, what did you say, a Ford Focus?” Ray says chuckling.

I nod.

“Where's his Secret Service? How would he get out of the White House?”

“I don't know. Ask him.”

“Why did you kill her?” asks Cal.

“What?”

“Why – did – you – kill – Callie Freig?”

“I didn't. I'd never seen her before, until I went over there that night. Seriously.”