He’d sat in the darkness, perfectly still, trying to steel himself against what might come next.“Nice to have quiet and time to think.” Kidwell shut the door behind him.“Sitting in the dark didn’t make me smarter.”“Didn’t it? I thought you might be ready to talk about Emily.”Ben felt a slow rage fill him. He said nothing. Ten seconds. Thirty seconds.Kidwell didn’t blink. “You got a real ugly streak inside you. I see it now.”“You’re an asshole.”“It’s just fascinating”—he pointed his fingers into little guns—“to me that, you know, your wife was shot to death two years ago, case never solved, and today your business card’s in a sniper’s pocket. Because I don’t believe in coincidence.”Ben stared at the floor.“Is that why you kept mewling for a lawyer, Forsberg? You didn’t want to talk about the way your wife died? Surely you weren’t stupid enough to think we wouldn’t make the connection.”Ben stood up from the chair.“Sit your ass down.”
