Blackwell appeared unconvinced, and Malone looked downright dubious. “Since you brought it up, let’s talk about the day Mr. Wallace died,” he said, shuffling though his papers again.

My head throbbed as I massaged my temples. Whatever amusement I’d felt over the proceedings drained from me, replaced by dread and a horrible, hollow ache. “I’ve already told you everything.”

“Tell us again.” Malone didn’t look up from his pages.

We’d been over every single aspect of their accusations and Andrew’s death in the past thirty-six hours, only taking short breaks for food and rest. There was nothing to be gained from repeating any of it, except possibly to wear me down, which had to be their goal. They were trying to trip me up. Catch me in a lie. But that wasn’t going to happen; I was telling the truth, whether they believed it or not.

My eyes closed, and the memory rolled over me, rendered no less horrible by the number of times they’d made me relive it. I flinched as Andrew’s face came into focus in my head. I couldn’t help it. Watching him die was one of the most difficult things I’d ever endured, and knowing I’d been the cause, however unwillingly, was the biggest regret of my life.

“What do you want to know?” I couldn’t keep weariness from my voice, but I made myself meet their eyes, knowing they’d see guilt rather than grief if I didn’t.

Malone scanned his notes. “Where did you get the spike?”

The railroad spike. That horrid, seven-inch iron spear, which had gone right through Andrew’s neck, spilling his life along with his blood. “They were all over the floor…” I trailed into blessed silence when I couldn’t purge the image from my mind.

“Why did you stab him with it?”

My hands clenched into fists again, this time on top of the table, where everyone could see them. “I was trying to knock him off me. He was going to crush my head!”

Malone leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes at me. “Or maybe he was threatening to tell everyone what you did. That you infected him. I imagine that would seem reason enough to kill him.”

I took a deep, calming breath. “Look, I didn’t mean to kill him, and I certainly wasn’t trying to cover anything up. There were five other people with us minutes earlier, and even if I hadn’t already told them I’d infected Andrew—and I’m sure any one of them will swear I had—they could smell my scent in his blood. It wasn’t a cover-up. It was self-defense.”

Malone’s eyes narrowed, his mouth already opening to argue, but Uncle Rick beat him to the punch. “We’ve heard all of this before,” he said, and I glanced at him in gratitude. “Let’s move on.”