I stare into my mug. If I look into her eyes, I’m not sure what she’ll see in them, so I keep them cast down. “What happens next?”

“He’s been tied to cases in several states, including here in Ohio. There’s going to be some back-and-forth before it gets settled. For now, he’s being held in Illinois. Jewelann,” she prompts so I look at her. “You’re going to get a lot of attention for this. Eli, too. Reporters. Looky-loos. I wouldn’t be surprised if those true crime assholes aren’t all over this. You don’t have to talk to anyone, you understand? Don’t let them promise you anything.”

“You think someone’s going to want to what, pay me? To talk about Ken?”

“They might. I’d get the money up front, if they do.” she sighs, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. She looks tired. “I wish you wouldn’t, though. I can’t stop you from it, but I hope you’re careful. Something like this can really mess up your life.”

“I think that already happened, Detective. Didn’t it?”

Her smile is thin, but genuine. I like her. I’m glad I’m not the target of her attention, though. I have a feeling Detective Anderson has a high success rate at getting what she goes after.

“Has he admitted to any of the crimes?”

“He’s made no admissions, no. He’s waiting for his lawyer,” she says.

It’s my turn to rub my face. My go-to point is between my eyes. I press my thumb and index finger at the ends of each brow, making small circles. It doesn’t ease my rising headache, but it gives me an excuse not to look at her.

“We don’t have the money for that.”

“He’ll be appointed one. He’s made some kind of contact with his sister—”

My hand jerks, knocking my mug. Coffee sloshes, but Detective Anderson is quick. She catches the mug before it can fall off the table.

“You didn’t know,” she says, but it’s clear she expected that.

I get up from the table to get a kitchen towel. I move in twitching, lurching steps, a robot with faulty batteries. I have to grip the edge of the sink to keep myself from falling over. My heart pounds, and my breath is thick in my throat.

“He told me he was an only child. That his parents died in a house fire when he was eighteen. I’ve never heard of a sister.” I concentrate on steadying my breathing. I can’t quite manage it. I pull out a glass and fill it with water from the tap, remembering too late that the sink won’t drain.

“She lives in Wisconsin. Married, two kids, both girls. Apparently she was much younger than him and was put into foster care after the fire. She claims she’s had nothing to do with him until recently. I don’t have all the information, but it does seem true that the parents died. It’s possible that …” She trails off.

She has compassion, that’s clear, and it’s appreciated. But I also think she’s testing me to see what I really do know, or don’t know. Or maybe just what I suspect.