James shrugged helplessly. “Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, right? He’s hoping that if he keeps asking me the same questions over and over, I’ll slip up and say something to contradict myself. Which is entirely possible—this all happened over twenty-five years ago. Even though I remember that weekend clearly, or at least I think I do, after all this time I’m sure that I’ve either forgotten certain details or remember them differently. They already pounced on one discrepancy in my story, even though it was entirely innocent.”

“What was it?”

“When they interviewed me in 1993, right after she disappeared, I apparently told them that we had a disagreement at some bar we went to that night. A guy offered to buy her a beer, and I was unhappy about it.”

I noticed he still wasn’t saying Hannah’s name. Instead it was she, her. Why was that? And why did it bother me?

“What was the discrepancy?”

James took another long drink from his glass, and then shook his head slowly. “I have absolutely no memory of that happening. I know we went to a bar for happy hour before we made camp, but I don’t remember the guy who wanted to buy her a drink, or the supposed argument we had about it.”

“Is it possible he made up the story? The police don’t have to tell the truth when they’re interrogating someone, you know.” That was something I’d picked up from crime shows over the years.

“I suppose it’s possible, but Detective Forsythe read my answers directly from the file. I’m not even saying it didn’t happen. I just don’t remember it.” James looked at me, his expression unfathomable. “Maybe I just don’t want to.”

“What do you remember?” I asked softly. “What happened that night?”

“Jesus, Maggie!”

The anger in James’s voice cut through me. My husband never shouted at me. He rarely raised his voice to anyone.

I could see that he regretted his outburst immediately. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to yell . . . but look. I’ve been asked that question all day today. Over and over and over. I can’t go through it again. I just can’t.”

He drained his glass, set it in the sink, and walked out of the kitchen. I was left alone, sitting under the bright lights that hung over the table. It was only after he left that I realized my hands were shaking.

Chapter Eight

James got up early the next morning. Before he left for work, he sat on the edge of our bed and rested a hand on my shoulder.

“I’ll be home for dinner tonight,” he said softly. “We’ll talk more then. Okay?”

I nodded, comforted by his touch. “Okay.”