“Questions about what? Are the Cranes going to press charges?” she asked, irritated. “Kids get into fights. Maybe they should teach their precious little angel to stick up for himself.”

The longer sentence gave her away. Her speech slurred ever so slightly. She’d been drinking.

“This isn’t about your son, ma’am,” Hicks said. “We need to clear up a couple of things as to your husband’s whereabouts last week Thursday evening.”

“My husband? Frank? You work with him, for heaven’s sake, why don’t you just ask him?”

“This is a bit delicate,” Mendez admitted. “Because your husband made a traffic stop on Karly Vickers the day she went missing, we have to make sure his time after that is accounted for so he can officially be ruled out as a suspect.”

Sharon Farman sobered at that. She sat up a little straighter. Her cigarette burned down in her fingers. “A suspect? You think Frank had something to do with that?”

“Not really, ma’am,” Mendez said. “Deputy Farman’s reputation speaks for itself. The timing was unfortunate, that’s all. This is a formality.”

Hand shaking again, she put the cigarette in the ashtray.

“I’m not comfortable with this,” she said. “Maybe I should speak to my husband first.”

“It’s really not a big deal, ma’am,” Hicks said easily. “We just need to nail down his time line. Do you remember what time he got home that evening?”

“We eat dinner at six thirty sharp,” she said. “Every night.”

She glanced at her watch then and what color she had left her cheeks. “Oh my God. Look at the time! I had no idea how late—Oh, no. I haven’t even taken meat out of the freezer! Why didn’t the girls wake me? Where are they?”

She looked around the room, as if they might appear.

It was 5:09, Mendez noted. Sharon Farman was genuinely distressed, not just ready to give them the bum’s rush out the door.

“Has Frank seemed different in any way this past week?” Hicks asked. “Stressed?”

“Of course he’s been stressed,” she snapped. “Look at what’s gone on: a murder, a kidnapping, our son finding that body. We’re all stressed, Detective.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you remember if your husband was home all evening, or if he might have gone out after dinner that night?” Mendez asked.

“I don’t know,” she said impatiently. “It was a week ago. And I have meetings on Thursday nights. I’m sure he was here when I left and when I came home. He always is.”

She looked at her watch again and got up from her chair. “I have to start dinner. Is there anything else?”

“No, ma’am,” Mendez said, rising. “Thank you for your time. We’ll show ourselves out.”

Without a word Sharon Farman turned and disappeared into the next room, leaving her cigarette smoldering in the ashtray.