But finally, the door opened, and Tucker and Johnson were there. Both looked grim.

“Is he—” I blurted, but Tucker’s expression softened a little.

“No, Mrs. Rhodes. The last we heard, he was still in surgery.”

I slumped with relief as the men took seats opposite me.

“You say that Henry Davis shot your husband this morning in the backyard of your home,” Johnson said, his tone firm and formal.

“That’s right,” I said. “Have you spoken to him?”

“We were planning a visit to his home,” Tucker said quietly. “But then we talked to your friend. Mrs. Walters.”

“Oh?” I said, eyebrows knitting. A shiver of unease raced through me.

“She told us some very illuminating information about your husband’s past, Mrs. Rhodes.” Johnson frowned. “She said you refused to deny that you were both Nazi party members back in Germany, and that Jürgen was an SS officer who…” His nostrils flared, and he stared at me with barely disguised hatred as he said, “…who ran some kind of concentration camp?”

“It wasn’t… I didn’t…” I gritted my teeth and tried to calm down. It would do me no favors to let them fluster me. “I came halfway around the world to be with Jürgen. Do you really think I’d hurt him? Do you really think I’d come here unless I loved him?”

“She also tells us that as late as last week, you told her that life was difficult here but that you couldn’t return to Berlin because of your husband.”

“I said nothing of the sort!” I exclaimed, but then I paused—because I did say that going home wasn’t an option. Maybe the detectives had twisted her words.

Or maybe she had twisted mine. My heart sank.

“And your husband broke into the Miller household a few weeks ago—”

“He did not!” I exclaimed. “Lizzie Miller made that up.” I squeezed my eyes closed. “Or her brother, maybe. I don’t know for sure.”

Johnson sighed impatiently.

“So your story is that Lizzie Miller made up a story about your husband breaking into her house and that Henry Davis just appeared at your window this morning and, without provocation, shot Jürgen and then ran away.”

“He’s been harassing us,” I said, eyes filling with tears of frustration. “He broke into our house! He threw a cake at me! He’s been walking up and down our street staring at me. For all I know, he’s been the one painting that word on the road outside of our house.”

“I didn’t see those reports on file,” Johnson remarked, almost smug. “Did I miss them? Should I take another look?”

“Jürgen spoke to you the first time that graffiti was found and you told him to just paint over it,” I said flatly. “We didn’t bother calling again after that. It was obvious you were not going to help us.”