“Ryan Francis?” she asked.

“That’s me.”

“I’m Marita Rountree, with the Rossingville Police Department. I’d like to ask you a few questions about an ongoing investigation.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Detective Rountree looked around the living room when she came in, sizing up the furniture, the letterpress prints on the walls. I offered her a seat, and she sank into the end of the couch while I opted for a chair. She had brown hair in long braids. She looked fit and wore a Garmin watch on her wrist, the kind you could use to track all of your exercise. I didn’t see a wedding band on her long fingers.

“Do you know why I’m here, Mr. Francis?”

“Ryan. And, yes, I think I do.”

She raised her eyebrows, encouraging me to explain.

“You’re here because someone tried to break into our house last night,” I said.

“Oh, I know about that, yes,” she said. “But that’s not why I’m here. Do you have another guess? I’ll give you one more.”

“I saw on the news that Jennifer Bates was murdered.”

“And how did you know her?” Rountree asked.

I explained that we had once made a bid on a project for her nonprofit. But they’d gone with someone else.

Rountree waited patiently. She looked like a woman with all the time in the world, even as her watch buzzed twice to indicate incoming texts. She didn’t even look down at it. She clearly had more discipline than I did when it came to ignoring texts and notifications.

Finally, she asked, “Did you know her in any other capacity?”

I was thankful for one thing—the secret about the Facebook messages sent to me by Jennifer hadn’t come out for the first time with the detective sitting there. Wherever Amanda was in the house—and I suspected she was still upstairs—I had no idea if she could hear us or not. If Henry was blathering and fussing while she changed him, she probably couldn’t. Nevertheless, I was glad she’d heard it from me already.

“We didn’t have a relationship outside of that one work experience,” I said. Then added, “Although she tried to establish one with me.”

Rountree’s face remained impassive while I told her about the Facebook messages. The ones six months ago and the more recent one in the last couple of days.

“What did this message from a couple of days ago say?” she asked.

“Nothing really. Just that we should talk. Soon.”

“Talk about what?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Just talk. Do you think it was work related?”

“I guess it could have been. Maybe. I just don’t know. I unfriended her and didn’t respond.”

Rountree didn’t show surprise, and I guessed, although I wasn’t certain, she already knew what the messages said. Why else would she be at my house?