“I don’t have much time. I shouldn’t be here. Tell me everything you know about Bob and Anne.” He gives me a fleeting look. There is hope and anger in his eyes.

“I don’t think you did this, and I know I didn’t,” I start.

“I don’t give a damn about your theories. Just tell me the facts!” He takes a couple of steps closer to me and grits his teeth.

“Okay. Okay.” I tell him everything. Everything I know about Bob, about Anne, about Kelly, everything. This is my last desperation play, so there’s no use not putting all my cards on the table.

“How did you find this information out?”

“I can’t tell you my source,” I say.

“I don’t give a fuck about protecting your source. You’ll be locked up until the trial for the shit you pulled today. I’m all you’ve got. If you want to get out of this whole mess. Tell me.” His patience has worn thin. He’s broken out in a sweat, and he’s glancing at the door and the one-way mirror frantically. I’m sure he’s not supposed to be here. There’s no way they’d keep him around after the shit he pulled today. He attacked an attorney, one of the best in the D.C. area. You don’t just walk away from that, even if your wife was murdered.

“Fine. Her name is Rebecca Sanford. She’s a reporter for the Prince William County Newspaper.” I hope to God Scott is telling the truth about not being involved with his wife’s murder; otherwise, I just gave him a smoking gun for my guilty conviction. Without Rebecca, I don’t have a chance in hell of getting out of this. Unless Sarah is working on another angle for my case.

He nods at me and tells me he’ll be in touch. I don’t know if I believe that, but I’m hopeful. Even when you have nothing left in your life, hope is the one thing that can never be taken away. Scott leaves abruptly without another word. I take a seat at the table and wait. I’ve gotten pretty good at waiting.

48. Sarah Morgan

48

Sarah Morgan

I headed to the bathroom to clean up my face before returning to the observation room looking in on the interrogation room Anne is sitting in. She sits alone, scared, nervous—guilty, maybe. She taps her fingers on the table, then fiddles with the hem of her shirt, then twirls her hair. She doesn’t know what to do with herself. Matthew is leaning against the wall behind me, watching Anne and me. I told him he could go. This isn’t his mess, nor his problem. But he insisted on being here, on helping me with this case.

“That was pretty messed up what happened out there with Eleanor,” he says.