“It doesn’t take long to sneak a few pills into someone’s coffee. Believe me,” I said stolidly, “I know. But committing one murder doesn’t make you an expert. This time you were sloppy. Suze must have told you my partner and I interviewed Crissy at work, and you knew they were meeting up today. Without having a clue how far we got with Crissy and what she told us, you were probably freaked. You couldn’t have her exposing you as the person who gave her the meth, or revealing you were present at the crime scene that night. You saw your chance, and you took it. I’d say it’s likely you’ll be charged with both homicide and attempted murder.”

“No.” Cheryl’s voice was little more than a squeak. There was a dull, dusty quality to her skin that made it easy to imagine what she’d look like dead.

“Still want to deny it, Robbie? You don’t have to answer that,” I said. “The chief of police will want to hear this all firsthand. For now, I just need you to know you have the right to remain silent, and that anything you do say can be used—”

That’s when Robbie lunged.

They say it takes about seventy repetitions of a movement to develop muscle memory. Over the years I’ve had an opponent’s arms around me hundreds of times, but all I could think of was my pitiful reaction when Sensei Sam challenged me in the dojo. I’d frozen that day, clammed up. And yet, when Robbie came at me with anger streaming from him like smoke, my body knew what to do.

Cheryl yelped as he shoved her aside and brought his weight down on my shoulder, sending me staggering sideways. A hot white flame of pain erupted in my upper arm. At the edge of my vision I saw Cheryl’s horror-stricken face as she rushed from the room. Erynn. The kid was in the house, just down the hall, and her father was on a rampage. No sooner had I righted myself than Robbie’s hands clamped my throat. There was a moment when the immense pressure on my windpipe sent my system into shock. Eyes streaming, I gaped at his face, red with outrage and rigid with determination, and thought I’m screwed. But my hands . . . those were free.

I was barely conscious of the moment when my arm shot out, doubled back, and weaved over and under Robbie’s unyielding forearms. With my left hand I clasped the knuckles of my right and yanked upward with all my might. It was a basic self-defense move, a surefire escape plan I’d learned in maybe my second year of karate. It was all about leverage. The action wrenched his hands from my neck. I didn’t waste any time capitalizing on his surprise. When he reached for me again, I braced his hand against my sternum, sank my weight, grabbed his neck with my right hand, and pulled. He yelped with pain as his wrist bent backward onto itself, and in seconds Robbie was on his knees.