“Susan is Geoffrey’s mother. Any idea why she would want Owen dead?”

Oh. My. God. I knew exactly why. Time had caught up with Owen. Susan must have figured it out—that her son was dead, that Owen fired the shot that killed him. But how? Only Owen and I knew what he had done . . . and one other person. A friend of Owen’s whose name I never got. I remembered seeing a man leave in Geoffrey’s car.

Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive. My wise grandmother had often quoted that saying, and how right she was. I was the fly stuck in the web that Owen had spun.

I didn’t know how to talk my way out of this other than with sheer ignorance. I had promised Owen long ago that I would bury him with that secret. I didn’t want to go back on it now . . . not after everything I’d done. Not unless it was the only way out.

“No, sir, I don’t know why she would target my husband.”

“One of your neighbors saw a woman fitting her description at your house last Tuesday. Do you recall this?”

The woman I had seen running from my house and who nearly plowed me over—that must have been Susan.

“Yes, I actually do remember that. I had just gotten home when she was leaving. I thought she might have been selling something or maybe had the wrong house.”

“So you don’t know what your husband and Susan talked about? Because we have her in custody, and she seems to think Owen killed her son. She claims she’s been watching Owen for some time . . . waiting to confront him about it. That’s why she was there that night.”

“Sir, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have no idea about any of this. I wasn’t there when they spoke.”

Detective Rossi collected the pictures, stuffing them into a messy pile. “Well, if you think of anything, please let me know. We’d like to close this case as quickly as possible so that your family can have closure and move on.”

Move on. It sounded unrealistic. I wanted it more than anything—not so much for my sake, but for Aria’s. The poor girl deserved some normalcy after the turbulent week she’d had. The drama with Ryan. The loss of her father. Not to mention the years of watching Owen’s abuse, silenced by fear. How much more could one girl take? Though if she was anything like me, we had thick skin that calloused easily.

It was time to save my daughter. Owen and I both owed it to her. I had one last ace up my sleeve, a confession that could end this whole investigation, wrapping it with a bloody red bow. Owen’s voicemail, which I hadn’t gotten around to deleting.