“No. I don’t think so. He was very well adjusted. As part of our training, we had to undergo therapy ourselves. Jay seemed to fly right through, while the rest of our class had varying levels of anxiety over it.” Dr. Westmore smiles slightly, as if thoughts of school and the past bring back brighter days.

“He didn’t have any strange thoughts, obsessions, after all he’d heard as a kid?” Joe asks.

She clears her throat. “If you’re thinking Jay killed that woman, you’re wrong. He was a kind, gentle man. He wasn’t having serial killer fantasies.” She’s adamant, like a defense attorney in a courtroom.

“How do you know?” I sit back, tap the arm of my chair with my pencil.

She blows out an irritated breath. “I just know.”

“Lots of serial killers fool their friends and families for years,” Joe says quietly.

She looks at him with something akin to anger. “I don’t think any of those individuals you’re referring to had a trained psychologist as a close friend.”

“Maybe not,” he agrees.

This isn’t getting us anywhere, so we wrap up with Dr. Westmore and bring in her husband.

Scott Westmore is wearing one of his landscaper shirts, light denim with his company logo stitched in the upper corner. His jeans are worn and dirt-stained. He runs us quickly through the night of the Fourth, nothing new.

“Mr. Westmore,” I say, “we’re looking at everything here.” I flip through my notes. “We didn’t find a whole lot in your background.” He remains our man of mystery. Does a killer lurk beneath that stoic exterior?

He doesn’t respond, a man of few words, annoyance on his weather-worn face.

“I see that you went to MIT for a couple semesters,” I say, perusing my notebook.

“That’s right.” His gaze is steady, and I break away first.

“Why didn’t you finish?”

“It wasn’t for me.”

“What was your major?” I add to my sketch of him, wrinkles fanning out from his eyes.

“Pre-med.”

“Huh. Went from that to landscaping?” Joe meets his gaze.

“Yes. Elise and I met as undergrads. We got married. Then I started my business while she finished school.”

“Okay. You didn’t hear anything the night of the Fourth? That woman was buried not a quarter mile from the house.” Joe stabs the table with his index finger.

“No.” His jaw tightens.

“You know the river pretty well, don’t you?” I ask.

“I told you before that Jay and I fished there.”

“You’re quite an outdoorsman,” I say, and lay my pencil down.

“I like to be outside.” His roughened hands twitch slightly, and I picture them around Annalise’s slim neck.

Joe glances at his notes, pen poised. “What vehicle did you drive up there that week?”

“My truck.”