Riggle’s gaze moved back to Somers. “Maybe you didn’t catch this the first time, Detective Somerset: my job is to be chief. Your job, on top of being a detective, is to make sure this department transitions smoothly to my leadership. That’s what your father promised me. Do you have any questions about that?”

“Chief—”

“I don’t know what’s going on in this fucking town. Do all of you have hearing problems?”

Somers bit the inside of his cheek again; the only sound he could hear was the burble of the coffeemaker, running on and on. How much coffee were they making? A barrel of it?

“No, Chief.”

Riggle grunted. Some of the tension eased in his shoulders. “It’s a fucking bad precedent, letting a perp dictate like this.”

“You’re in charge of this, sir. You can give him what he wants, and maybe we move forward with this case. Or you can tell him to take a flying leap. You’re the boss.”

The burbling slowed to a drip-drip-drip.

“Fine,” Riggle said, “if that fucker will only talk to you, let the fucker have what he wants.”

“I’d like Detective Dulac in there with me.”

Making a disgusted noise, Riggle waved a hand and moved toward the observation area attached to the interview room. Somers let the chief gain a couple yards of distance, and then he turned and waved at Dulac. Red still stained the younger detective’s cheeks, and his posture was stiff as he joined Somers.

“That was really shitty,” Somers said.

“Yeah, bro.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dulac shook his head. “Come on, we’ve got an interview.”

When they stepped into the room, Somers knew they’d made a mistake. Wesley looked terrible: his ginger quiff was sagging to one side, his face was waxy, and he must have dressed in the dark or in a blind frenzy, because he was wearing a red velour jacket with a pink, candy-cane-stripe button down. It even had pink piping along the collar and the cuffs. Aniya Thompson sat at his side, her hand on his arm, and even the hardened lawyer’s eyes had a pink tinge.

Wesley had obviously been crying, and his voice was rough as he said, “Is she really dead? Is Susan really dead?”

“I’m sorry,” Somers said. “Yes. She is. I’m so sorry, Wesley.”

Instead of more sobs, though, Wesley straightened in the chair, dashing at his eyes. “Oh my God. This isn’t possible, right? This is totally impossible. I just saw her. John-Henry, you were with us on Sunday. You saw us. We were—everything was fine.”

Dropping into a chair, Somers folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Wesley, I need you to think really carefully. Everything is going to move fast now. I’m going to ask you some questions you won’t like. Are you ready?”

Wesley nodded.

“You’ve been informed of your rights?”

Another nod, but this time, Wesley glanced at Thompson. She nodded in confirmation.

“This is a mistake, right?” Wesley said. “I’m not under arrest. I can’t be. I didn’t do anything.”