“Let me ask you another thing. Does your wife own a pair of gloves? Black winter gloves? Last night you told me there was a glove on the floor of Ms. Bates’s house. And you were right. We did find that glove there. A lady’s glove. We thought it might belong to Ms. Bates, but then why would it be out in the middle of the floor when it’s not that cold outside? So maybe we’re rethinking things. Maybe the glove was dropped by the killer. We’re checking it for DNA, of course.”

“Lots of people own black gloves.”

“But likely only one DNA profile will be on there. Maybe two if it touched the victim.”

“I don’t believe any of this.”

“Why don’t I just have a look at her devices? Laptop, iPad? It won’t take long.”

“Do you have a warrant?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

“You’re wrong. You’re wrong to even think these thoughts. Just let it be.”

“Prove I’m wrong, then,” she said. “Find your wife and let her explain it all. Then everybody can move on.” She started walking to the door and didn’t look back, even as she said, “I’ll be back with a warrant, then. It won’t take long.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

I refused to sit around.

I refused to wait.

I stood in the middle of our living room surrounded by the photos of our life. A wedding portrait. The “For Sale” sign in the yard the day we moved in. Henry on Amanda’s stomach moments after he was born. We’d built all of this. A life together.

Did it mean nothing?

But it was me. From the first day I’d met Amanda, I’d been lying. I never told her what I thought was the truth about the accident. I lied to her about going to Jennifer’s house.

How could I expect honesty back from her? I’d started the lying. Had she built on top of it?

I took the risk of calling Karen and Bill. I hoped against all evidence to the contrary that Amanda had come to her senses, completed whatever task she was involved in, and returned to her parents’ house to get Henry. As the phone rang at their house, I moved to the kitchen, remembering that just over an hour ago Amanda and I had sat down to coffee, hoping to begin the process of turning the page on everything that had happened. I walked past the spot where we sat together and looked out the back window, seeing the dogwood tree in my neighbor’s yard sprouting white blooms. I hoped to see Amanda’s car pulling in, Henry strapped in the back, life on the cusp of returning to normal.

But no one was there.

When Karen answered, I asked her if Amanda had shown up to get Henry.