“Do you own a hunting knife, Ms. O’Roarke?”

Darby was about to shake her head then paused. “I have one at my dad’s cabin out in the bush.” The thought of her father hearing about this tore her up inside. She’d already shaved a decade off his life last summer.

“So, you’re familiar with knives?”

Darby had already told the woman she and her father hunted for their food. The nearest supermarket was a flight away so knowing how to field dress a kill was vitally important. She went with sarcasm instead. “I use them every day to eat my food, Detective.”

“Hunting knives?” Torgerson pressed without the slightest hint of humor.

Elliot leaned forward over the table. “This is Alaska. Everyone who grows up here knows how to use a hunting knife. What’s your point?”

Torgerson thrust a photograph across the table. Darby glanced at it. “Have you ever seen this knife before?”

A large, black-handled hunting knife with a lethal point and razor edge.

Her mouth went dry. “N-no. But I presume it’s the knife used to kill Martin?”

The detective didn’t budge from her stony-faced interrogation. “And you never touched Martin Carstairs’s body?”

“No,” Darby said firmly. “I didn’t touch Martin or the knife.”

The detective leaned forward, and undisguised relish lit up her features. “Then how do you explain us finding your fingerprints all over the murder weapon?”

The blood drained from Darby’s head and she swayed unsteadily in her chair.

“My client has nothing further to say.”

Detective Torgerson’s mouth slid into a sneer. “She doesn’t need to say a damn thing. We have her for this and it will only go better for her if she confesses now. You know it and I know it. The DA might offer her a deal if she fesses up and stops wasting our time.”

“Like I said, Detective,” Elliot’s tone was thick with frost, “my client doesn’t remember everything that took place last night. I want a copy of all the evidence and toxicology reports and the postmortem examination as soon as you have them. And now I’d like to consult with Ms. O’Roarke. Alone, please.”

The detective rolled her eyes.

Darby sat frozen on the chair. Reality crashed around her. She’d done this. She’d killed Martin. “I need to use the bathroom. I think I’m going to be sick.”

Chapter Eight

Darby’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon.

Eban strode out of the viewing room and headed to the bullpen, intending to go outside and freak the fuck out somewhere people wouldn’t notice. He felt as if the air had been knocked out of his lungs, as if his entire world had imploded.

Darby’s prints were on the weapon.

He wanted to yell in anguish and frustration.

Officer Robertson stood talking to another man whom Eban recognized as the evidence tech from the afternoon. Allan caught his eye and waved Eban over. Eban hesitated but then forced himself to go talk to the other men.