Tinsley slammed her fists down on the table, giving the detective a jolt.

“Fuck you, lady!” she shouted. “I didn’t hide anything, and I didn’t kill her. I don’t even step on spiders when I see them. And let me tell you, I really fucking hate bugs.” Tinsley dropped her shoulders back and puffed out her chest. But the anger and momentum she’d felt drizzled out moments later when the detective remained still, watching her suspect shiver with anxiety and fear.

“Why were you in the pantry, Tinsley? I know you found the butler’s quarters…”

“Of course I knew! I was interested in the house, okay? I like old houses and ghostly shit. So, I went exploring a bit on Saturday and I found the entrance to the butler’s pantry. I’d read about it online. It’s not that big of a secret for people who actually read and like to research things.”

“A convenient excuse. That way when we find your prints and DNA all over that butler’s room, you’ll have an excuse for being in there. Simply exploring…” The detective throws up her hands. She’s short on sleep and even shorter on patience.

“No, actually, you won’t find much of anything belonging to me in there,” Tinsley said. “I opened the door, but I never made it up the steps. I heard someone come in the kitchen. That damn Beake woman. I thought about going up there anyway, but then I decided against it. I was going to come back later and explore, but I never got the chance. I closed the door to the butler’s chamber, and I never went back to it. The only place you’ll find my prints is on the knob and doorway.”

The detective frowned, considering the girl’s open and honest expression. The closer she got to the truth, the farther she felt from understanding anything.

Shifting gears, she asked, “What did you write on Rosalee’s anonymous well wish card? Do you remember?”

Tinsley shrunk back into her chair and started picking at her fingers nervously.

“I don’t remember, exactly.”

“You don’t remember? Well, surely you can recall the gist of it, at least…”

“I don’t know, okay? It was something about not going to bed angry. Something dumb and cheesy, like a quote from a Hallmark card.”

“That’s not true though, is it?”

Tinsley looked up into the detective’s eyes, deer in headlights. “What do you mean?”

“Elizabeth Beake wrote the one about going to bed angry. You just heard that one read aloud by Rosalee so you claimed it was yours before she could call you out on the real thing you wrote.”

Tinsley placed her face in her hands.

The detective waited; patience restored.