I had already given the same story twice now. But I knew better than to sound defensive and annoyed; that was a sure giveaway of guilt. I calmly told the story again. “We had gotten in a tiff yesterday afternoon and I needed some fresh air and went to visit my friend Lily. We ended up drinking, so I spent the night at her place, since I don’t drink and drive. You can check my voicemail messages from Owen—he called me over a dozen times asking where I was.”

I knew they would stumble across the messages eventually, so my plan was to offer as much truth as possible—the fight, me leaving, his messages—to appear fully transparent. I could control how the story was told, but not how it was interpreted.

“Why didn’t you return his calls?”

“I was upset. Haven’t you ever gotten in a fight with your spouse? Sometimes you just want some peace. That’s all I wanted.”

He nodded. What did that mean?

“What time did you leave Lily’s?”

I pretended to think it over. “Um, I ended up heading home pretty early in the morning—it was still dark out. I couldn’t sleep and I felt okay to drive, so that’s why I left.”

He made a check mark next to something I’d previously said. Good, I wasn’t deviating from my story. “What happened when you got home?”

“When I got home this morning, I noticed the back door glass was smashed in, so I ran upstairs to check on Aria and Owen. Aria was asleep, but I found Owen . . .”

I stopped, the image of his lifeless body lying there overwhelming me. By my own hand. His face a dull gray as morning sunlight rose over him. A sob slipped out, then another as it hit me that I would never see that face again.

“Take your time, Mrs. Fischer. I know this is hard.”

“Sorry.” I closed my eyes and inhaled a calming breath. “I’m okay.”

“You’re doing great. Now think back on the fight yesterday. Try to remember what you two were fighting about. It might be important.” Although his words were intended to sound compassionate, they came out cold, calculating. He didn’t care about my grief; he only cared about solving a murder.

A tissue box sat on the table. I grabbed one and wiped my nose to buy time. This was the third time he’d asked about the fight since we’d gotten here, and it wasn’t for no reason. He was fishing for information he already knew. “Oh, I remember now. We had been fighting about something he did behind my back—to a friend of ours.”

“Did that fight have anything to do with the recent charges your husband pressed against . . .” He read from the page in front of him. “Ryan Thompson?”