“It certainly doesn’t. You’re right. So, why does your cousin believe that you killed your father? Or, let me put it this way: why did you tell her that you killed him, Rosalee?”

Rosalee’s tough mask slipped, eyes crinkling in the corners and voice quivering as she said, “Because I wish I had.”

“How come?”

Rosalee shook her head, but she couldn’t stop the tears. They bubbled over, running down her cheeks. She tried to wipe them with the back of her hands, but now they were coming too fast.

“It’s okay. I just want to know why. I’m not accusing you of doing anything to anyone. I’m just trying to understand what Tinsley’s mindset was, why she would say such terrible things about you.”

“It’s not her fault, it’s mine. She’s right—I told her that I killed him, okay? And even now, I still wish it were true. I wanted to be the one who killed him. I wanted to put that mean old man out of his misery for good,” Rosalee said.

“What did he do to you, Rosalee? Please tell me,” the detective said, softly.

“Nothing. He was kind to me, if anything. That’s what always made it so hard. It was my mother he mistreated, beating her and tormenting her every chance he had, and then morphing back into this charming and wonderful guy she thought she could trust. He was mad at her that day. He was always mad about something … and the drive was his way of punishing her. She had been talking on the phone to one of her male coworkers. So, of course he accused her of cheating. He forced us out into the car, even though no one was supposed to be on the roads that day because of the weather. It wasn’t the first time he used his vehicle as a weapon, driving recklessly or swerving to spook my mom when he was angry. Riding with him was always terrifying, no matter what sort of mood he was in. And regardless of the road or weather conditions.”

“Did he crash the car on purpose that day?”

Rosalee took a sharp intake of breath, then sighed heavily. “I don’t know, truly. I don’t think so. I think he simply didn’t see the tree ahead. He was screaming at my mom, holding the wheel with one hand and punching her with his fist in the other. I kept putting my head down in my lap, praying and waiting. The best way to deal with his angry outbursts was just to ride them out. Eventually, he would exhaust himself and run out of steam, just like a toddler throwing a tantrum. But then the crash happened. And when I came to, my mother was dead and my father was gone, a big, jagged hole in the windshield showing me where he went.”