“Leah,” the lawyer Kate said to her. “Anything you tell me is protected by solicitor-client privilege. If you help the police with the investigation, we might be able to arrange immunity for you.”

“Immunity?” Susan Roberts gasped. Hope suddenly brightened her eyes. She took Leah’s hand in hers. “Leah, you could get immunity. Just tell Ms. Lange everything you know about Aiden.”

Blackness threaded Leah’s brain. It was soft, black fluff. Like Spook’s fur.

Her mother squeezed her hand. “Leah, tell Ms. Lange about Aiden.” Her mother used the tone that demanded Leah respond.

She opened her eyes. “His name is Aiden.” The words slurred in her mouth, but she was able to string them together.

“What is his last name?”

She exhaled. “I…don’t know.”

Her parents exchanged glances.

“Leah, don’t protect him. He made you do something that is entirely out of character for you.” Her father leaned over her. “Were you there against your will?”

She could tell from the eagerness in his voice that he hoped her answer would be affirmative.

“No…yes. I don’t know.”

Kate the lawyer’s phone rang.

She glanced down at it. “Sorry, I must take this call.” She rose with an apologetic look. “We’ll finish this as soon as I get back. It should only take a minute.”

If only the consequences of this mess would only take a minute.

Leah had the sense that it was more like a lifetime.

Hers.

She closed her eyes and let the blackness cushion her.

But remorse kept stabbing through the oblivion she sought.

Chapter 25

Chapter 25

1:59 p.m.

Harry slipped into his hotel room. His phone burned a hole through his breast pocket straight into his chest. His clothing was soaked with sweat. He couldn’t catch his breath, the pressure in his chest was so great.

Was he having a heart attack?

He had left the police station, dripping in sweat, believing that the police interview had been the biggest test of mental fortitude that he had ever undergone. His father had been purple with rage as Harry removed him from the interview room. It had taken every ounce of patience for Harry to defuse his father’s temper.

“I am going to call Randall Barrett as soon as we return to the hotel, Dad,” he had said. “We’ll figure out the best course of action.”

“There’s something wrong with our justice system, Harry,” his father said, his voice hoarse, “when innocent victims are prosecuted for trying to protect themselves.”

It was pointless to respond, to defend the police’s actions—they have no choice, you broke the law—because he knew it would further inflame his father.

And he could not defend the unfairness of the situation.

His mother had died from sheer terror and his father was going to be arrested for trying to protect her.

Where was the justice in that?