“What about Sunday?”

“What about it?”

“Don’t do that,” Somers said.

“You’re . . . you’re using your personal relationship against me,” Wesley said. “You can’t do that.”

“On Sunday, you were seen in an altercation with Susan Morrison.”

“We had a tiff. You son of a bitch, I can’t believe you. You fucking son of a bitch.”

“What were you arguing about?”

“Nothing. It was nothing.”

“It didn’t sound like nothing,” Dulac said, stretching as he pushed away from the wall and sauntered over to the table. “It sounded like you were pissed. Really, really mad. At Susan.”

“It was a minor disagreement. She wanted to move in; I said I needed my space. Hearing Gray and Darnell planning the move, it set her off. And I can’t believe you two. You’re supposed to be helping me; that’s why I asked for you. You’re supposed to be making this better.”

“Did she see something she wasn’t supposed to?” Dulac said. “We’ve been thinking about that. After you killed Rory Engels—”

“I didn’t kill anyone!”

“—and mutilated Phil Camerata—”

“I’ve never hurt anyone!”

“—and gutted Mitchell Martin—”

“Stop it!” Whirling to Thompson, Wesley shouted, “Make them stop this!”

“—what did you do after that?” Dulac was still asking. “Did you keep something? A trophy? A little memento you could jerk off to? And Susan found it, got curious, started asking questions. You said she was smart; maybe she started to put things together. She confronted you—”

“At a dinner party? Are you out of your mind?”

“—and you realized she had to go. Is that what happened?”

“I’m done,” Wesley said. “I’ve got nothing else to say.”

“I think that’s enough for right now,” Thompson said, braids clicking as she stood.

“What was the fight about?” Somers asked.

“That’s all for now, Detective.”

“What were you arguing about?” Somers said.

“I don’t know,” Wesley screamed. “I don’t know. I want to go home. I hate this and I want to go home.”

“Susan Morrison isn’t ever going home again, you little fuck,” Dulac shouted, bulling towards the table. “Susan Morrison isn’t ever going anywhere again because you murdered her—”

“Detective,” Thompson shouted, getting in Dulac’s path. “Get a hold of yourself!”

“—killed her to keep your secret—” Dulac was shouting.

Grabbing Dulac, Somers forced him out of the interview room and dragged the door shut behind them. As soon as the latch clicked into place, Dulac shivered and wiped his face.

“Fuck,” he whispered. Then, louder, “That was fucking awful.”

The door to the observation area opened, and Riggle came out. He was appraising Dulac, an eyebrow raised, as he said, “Pretty good work in there, Detective.”

Dulac stared at the ground and nodded.

“The feebs still have the crime scene locked down. I want you guys to check out Wesley’s apartment, see what you can find. If you’re right, Detective Dulac, and Susan Morrison did find something, I want to get it before the feds do.”

“Chief,” Somers said, “we pressed Wesley pretty hard in there, but I honestly don’t see him as a suspect. A person of interest, yes, but we’ve got nothing solid except his relationship with Susan. I’d be more comfortable if we let him go for now while we built a stronger case.”