“Do you understand your rights?”

“Yes, I—John-Henry, this is me. Wesley. Come on!”

“Did you kill Susan Morrison?”

Wesley ran the heel of one hand under his eyes and looked away. “This is unbelievable.”

“Wesley, did you kill Susan Morrison?”

“No.”

“Were you involved in any way in the killing of Susan Morrison?”

“No. God. Of course not.”

“Did you have any part in transporting Susan Morrison’s remains?”

“They moved her? Mother of Christ, where? What happened?”

“Wesley, please.”

“No. I didn’t have anything to do with this. I don’t know anything about it. I barely even know Susan’s dead, and that’s because they woke me up and dragged me out of bed to tell me, and then they arrested me, and now I’m here. John-Henry, you know me. I’ve been to your house. I’ve watched your little girl. You can’t possibly believe I had anything to do with this.”

“Where were you last night?”

“What?”

“Last night.”

“I had dinner with some parishioners—the Lindauers, Chris and Anne. Do you know them?”

“What time?”

“Six.” Wesley glanced at Thompson again; the lawyer nodded.

“Until?” Somers asked.

“Eight.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Another glance at Thompson. “The Lindauers put their kids to bed at eight. I left right around then. You can check.”

Somers nodded. “And after that?”

“It was a Monday night. I went home.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

“No, I was alone.”

“We believe Mr. Wesley’s phone and internet records will corroborate his location,” Thompson said. “I’ll be working with his providers to get that information.”

“That would help,” Somers said.

“Easy to fake,” Dulac said. “Leave your phone at home. Access the computer remotely. Make it look like you’re in the house, reading Mother Jones, when really you could be anywhere else.”

“Gray,” Wesley said in a tone of wounded shock.

“As a reminder,” Thompson said, “the burden of proof is on the state. My client was home; he says he was home. If you have reason to believe he wasn’t, we’ll be happy to hear it.”

“His girlfriend was savagely murdered,” Dulac said, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. “How’s that for a reason?”

“Gray,” Wesley said again, shaking his head. “We’re friends. Why are you—we’re supposed to be friends.”

“Did you leave the house after you got home from the Lindauers?” Somers said.

“No.”

“Not even stepping outside? Not even for a minute? Maybe you didn’t pick up the morning paper, so you ran down the driveway to pick it up?”

“I don’t get the paper delivered. Nobody gets the paper delivered anymore.”

“So you were in the house all night?”

“My client has already answered that question,” Thompson said.

“How was your relationship with Susan?” Somers said.

Wesley’s mouth dropped open, and he spread his hands, glancing around, like he was playing to an invisible audience. “Great. I mean, fantastic. We love each other. She’s kind, smart, funny, patient. She’s—” He stopped, ran his fingers around his mouth. “She’s dead.” The words sounded like a test run, just trying them out.