“We’ll question both Anne and Bob. Frankly, I’m just crossing the Ts and dotting the Is as this case is closed on our end.”

“You have to admit this is a weird connection. Bob has motive, and Anne threatened Adam. So, I’d appreciate it if you did more than just cross the Ts and dot the Is,” I say sternly. “And I’d like handwriting analysis of the note in comparison to Anne’s.”

“You’re right. It’s definitely suspicious. If either of them were involved, we’ll find out.” He tries to match the seriousness in my tone of voice. “No need on the handwriting analysis. She’s already admitted to writing the note.”

“Have you heard of false confessions? I’ll need the handwriting analysis.” This sheriff’s police work is sloppy at best, and I’m unsure if it’s due to ignorance or if it’s intentional.

He presses his lips tightly together and nods.

“May we observe the questioning of the two persons of interest?” I ask. “Their testimony will ultimately be pertinent to my case.”

“Sure. I don’t see why not.”

I can’t tell if he thinks he is doing me a favor or is just in an agreeable mood. “Would you mind staggering the interviews then? So we can observe them both?”

Sheriff Stevens raises his eyebrows at my question, “I suppose we could,” his voice trails up very high at the end, “but you do know that will greatly increase the time you are here for the evening, right?”

“Obviously.” Matthew rolls his eyes.

“I understand,” I say with clear confidence in my voice.

“Okay then… sure. I’ll let the deputies know. Do you have a preference of who first?”

“Let’s start with Anne.”

47. Adam Morgan

47

Adam Morgan

What the fuck is taking so long? And where the hell is my mom?

I called her as soon as they finished booking me. I pace back and forth in the interrogation room, a place I have become quite familiar with over the past two weeks. They better find something on Anne and Bob. This is my last hope, and I need Sarah and Sheriff Stevens to believe me. They have to believe that I didn’t do it, just enough to thoroughly look into Bob and Anne.

The door is thrown open with such force it slams against the concrete wall and bounces back into Scott Summers. He winces in pain and then shuffles in, flinging the door closed behind him. He looks like a wild animal, flushed, breathing heavily, eyes bloodshot, lips pursed. “We need to talk,” he says sternly.

I put my hands up showing that I’m not looking for a fight.

“Relax. I’m not going to hit you.”

I put my hands down and fold my arms, waiting for him to speak. I don’t know what he’s here for.