Gallinger cuts off Skov, saying, “Which is why it doesn’t make sense that the killer waited hours after the murder before fleeing the scene when your mother says she found your father.” He’s quick to find a hole in the story.

I’m silent, processing the evidence they have.

The logical side of my brain pieces together my own defense first. Footage from the gas station, the toll pass stations on the highway … there’s enough to keep me away from the time of death.

A sense of calm comes over me, but only for a moment.

“My mother isn’t a killer. This signature—” I start to say, but stop myself. The expectant gazes of two men searching for more stare back at me.

All I have to do is be quiet. There isn’t enough evidence to convict my mother or me but there’s also evidence to the contrary. Evidence that points to a killer.

But there’s one little statement I want to deliberately let slip. “You think he was going to kill my mother too? He was waiting for her and then I arrived? Or was he going to kill me?”

I’ve never been the best actress. I can put on a show for a courtroom, but tears? Real tears? Those are hard to come by under normal circumstances, let alone this.

“If he took off when you showed up …”

In this moment, though, it’s easy to cry, mourning for my father and also shedding tears of relief for my mother. “I saved her from being killed?” I let the question fall in between us, my voice full of hope as I stare wide eyed across the table at the man who knows damn well I didn’t do it. I’d bet my last dollar he’s eager to get a taste of the cold cases instead of pinning my father’s murder on a woman he’s known for years.

With a tap on the steel table, the one detective leaves and then the other follows.

They make me wait for at least forty minutes; the only noise to keep me company is the click of the heater turning on and then back off.

All the while I pray my mother doesn’t say anything. Not a word.

She promised. I told her this morning, it was all she needed to do to keep us safe.

With the fears of the unknown by my side, I startle when the metal door opens again. Raking his hand through his unruly hair, Skov tells me I can go. And that he’s sorry for my loss.

It dawns on me that he’s said it more than three times now and I wonder how close he was with my father. Not enough to ask, though. Not enough to create more dialogue than needed.

“My mother?” I ask him. “Is she okay?” The thudding in my chest is heavy and refuses to go unnoticed. I only hope I can silence it.

“She needs help,” he says and his thick brow furrows.