Thoughts of my father morphed into memories of the previous night. Of Tom’s still body, his missing eye. I slumped back into the armchair, wanting to hide. I wished I could be home in Southern California, in my own bedroom. We’d been on the road for three months, another one to go. It felt like an eternity. Detective Furlow lumbered over behind Mom, carrying his notebook and a battered zipped binder. The tape recorder mocked me from his shirt pocket. Was the killer’s voice, sounding innocent, captured in there during one of the detective’s many interviews? The idea sickened me. Detective Furlow was dressed in the same clothes as last night, his shirt looking more rumpled than before. “Hi, Shaley.” I tried to dredge up a smile but couldn’t. “Hi.” “Sorry I have to interrupt your afternoon like this.” “It’s okay.” He stopped in the middle of the lounge area, glancing around as if not sure where to sit. Dark circles hung below his eyes. My heart panged at that. “Haven’t you slept?”
