Darby hadn’t told her entire story yet. After this experience she doubted she ever would.

“Someone in the group might be a witness.” The detective sounded reasonable, but she had yesterday too, before accusing Darby of cold-blooded murder.

Darby took a sip of water. “Talk to Dr. Kim Gleeson.” He should know the law regarding this matter.

“Your therapist?”

Darby nodded. She didn’t want to hinder the investigation but neither did she want the cops re-traumatizing victims.

“Who knew you attended the group therapy sessions?”

Darby frowned. “The other attendees. The people who rented the church hall to Dr. Gleeson. Gleeson’s assistant. His grad students.” Darby scratched the skin above her thumb. “I might have mentioned it at school a few times without giving details. How did Adele die?”

The news hadn’t gone into specifics.

The detective’s nostrils flared. “Painfully.”

Saliva flooded Darby’s mouth. “She was a nice person. Kind. Why do you think she was murdered?”

The detective’s eyes narrowed. Darby would swear the woman still considered her a suspect despite her having an unshakable alibi. It didn’t get much better than being chaperoned by a Federal Agent.

The detective didn’t answer. Instead, she showed a picture of a black glove. “We found this at the church.”

Darby pulled the printout closer. “Is that mine?”

The detective tilted her head. “You tell me.”

Darby’s heart raced. “It looks like mine but could be the same make. I haven’t seen either of my gloves since the ceilidh.” Which felt like a hundred years ago now. “I assumed they were in my truck.”

The detective showed her another photograph. A footprint in the snow.

Darby raised her brow in question then looked at Elliot for guidance.

“Do you recognize this tread pattern?” Torgerson asked.

“Er…no.”

“What about your own boots?”

Darby shifted so she could rest her boot on her knee to see the underside. She and Elliot both stared from her rubber sole back to the image.

“Nothing alike,” Elliot stated firmly.

“Not those boots. The ones we have in evidence.”

Darby stared at the image again and frowned. “You’re saying these prints are from my other snow boots?” A shiver ran down her spine. “Where did you find them?”

The detective placed another image on the table, the same tread pattern but this time in blood.

Darby recoiled.

“Where was this footprint found?” Elliot asked.

“St. Paul’s. And,” the detective touched the first image of the footprint in the snow. “This one was discovered in the woods outside Martin Carstairs’s neighbor’s home. They match the tread pattern on your snow boots that we have in evidence.”

Facts kept turning over inside her head. Facts that didn’t make sense. “Are you saying the killer wore the exact same boots as me?” Darby’s voice was rising in agitation. “The same size and everything?”

“I haven’t heard back on the size from the lab yet, but the same brand, yes.”

Darby stared at the image. “They are pretty common winter boots.”

Was this a coincidence? Or was the killer actively working to frame her? How would they know what boots she wore? Was it someone from UAF? Someone she worked with? A friend?