Detective Powell raised his head, keeping his back bent and his shoulders turned toward his knees. “It might be the kind of thing that you would want to tell people, Ava. You might feel that you need to defend your parents’ reputation or correct rumors. But unfortunately, if we talk to you, then you really can’t repeat what we say.”

If they both hadn’t been armed, Imani might have shouted at them to cut the bullshit. It was a simple question. Either the police thought Nate had killed himself or they didn’t. “She understands.” Imani hissed.

The detectives exchanged another look. “When someone shoots a gun, it usually leaves residue on their hands. There wasn’t any on your father’s palms. So we don’t believe he shot it.”

Ava sniffed. “Do you know who did?”

“Do you know what your parents were doing after you last saw them?” Detective Calvente asked, displaying the deflection skills she’d unveiled at the door. “Did they leave the house, or did anyone come over?”

Tears accumulated on Ava’s brown lashes. “My dad was…” Ava gasped at her use of past tense. She balled her hands into fists and drove them into her jean-clad thighs. “He was in his fifties, and he had hard arteries. He took statins. That put him in a high-risk group, so he never wanted to leave the house, and my mom didn’t want to risk getting him sick.”

“Well, everyone has to leave their home sometime.” The retort came from Detective Powell. He still wasn’t sitting fully upright. “Even if for a little walk, change of scenery and some fresh air, right? Or maybe to grab something from the grocery store. Or to let in a delivery guy?”

Ava pressed the heels of her hands into her closed eyes. “I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.”

“Because your bedroom is on the fourth floor, right,” Detective Calvente said, her tone telling more than asking. “You wouldn’t necessarily hear the front door slam or what happened on the basement level?”

“I have one of those machines,” Ava said. “It plays rain sounds and white noise. There’s been some construction on the block. Mom bought it so I could sleep past seven a.m.”

“And does it work or do you still hear the street sounds?”

Ava’s hands dropped from her face, revealing her round, watery eyes, the whites shot through with red. “Do you think I slept through someone attacking my parents?”

The detectives’ silence betrayed that they were considering the possibility.

Imani had teenage clients with sleep disorders, kids who couldn’t close their eyes longer than a blink because of crippling anxieties, people who needed to be chemically put down every night and caffeine-slapped every morning. She couldn’t let guilt turn Ava into one of those patients.