“We’re not married anymore, so no it isn’t. Detective Cruz, please record this interview with Peter Gibson.”

Freddie clicked on the recorder and returned to his post by the door, sending the signal that this one belonged to Sam.

“You’ve been advised of your rights, including your right to an attorney?”

“Don’t need one. You’ve got nothing on me.” Peter raised his cuffed hands. “Is this really necessary?”

“Detective Cruz, please un-cuff Mr. Gibson.” When Freddie didn’t immediately comply, she said, “Detective.”

Freddie stalked past her and released the cuffs. Scowling at her, he returned to the door.

Peter rubbed his wrists. “Kind of a lot of drama over nothing, Sam,” he said in the patronizing tone he’d often used on her when they were together.

“Nothing?” She laid out each of the photos of her that had been found in his apartment, hearing the loud nuts-on-the-block buzz that had been missing with Terry O’Connor. “What do you call this?”

“Amateur photography. Is that a crime these days?”

“No, but stalking is.”

He shrugged. “A misdemeanor. So charge me.”

“Thanks, I will. Hanging around outside my house? Kind of pathetic, even for you.”

His genial blue eyes hardened. “I wasn’t outside your house.”

“Yes, you were. It’s sad that you’d rather stalk the woman who divorced you than find someone new to control. Pathetic, isn’t it, Cruz?”

“At the very least,” Freddie said. “I’d say it’s kind of sick and pathetic to be fixated on your ex, especially when she’s made it crystal clear to the world that she wants nothing to do with you.”

If looks could kill, Freddie would’ve been a goner.

Sam moved around the table so she was behind Peter. “Pissed you off that I didn’t want you anymore, didn’t it?”

“I didn’t want you, either. You were a shitty wife and lousy in bed.” He looked up at the dark glass that masked the observation room. “You hear that?” he yelled. “She sucks in the sack!”

“Nick doesn’t think so.”

Peter tried to surge to his feet, but she shoved him back down.

“I guess you’ve figured out that we compared notes and discovered you didn’t give me his messages six years ago when you were pretending to be my friend.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“No, but it is pathetic. Must’ve pissed you off this week to see me with him.”

“Like I care.”

“Oh, I think you do.” She leaned in to speak close to his ear. “I think you care a whole lot.”

In a jerky motion, he shrugged her off. “Giving yourself a lot of credit, aren’t you?”

Returning to the other side of the table, she laid a photo of the bomb-making materials in front of him.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Why don’t you tell me?”