badminton with two women,” I said. “They were naked.”
A muscle twitched in Purvis’s jaw. “Okay, Miss Templeton. What time did you leave East Bay?”
“9:00 a.m.”
“Can anyone corroborate that?”
“No, sir. I don’t think so.”
“How did you enter the house?” he asked.
“The back door was open.” And it had been—this wasn’t a lie. I started to mention the key I’d put in my purse, but he cut me off.
“If you and the victim were broke up, why were you here?” he asked.
“He texted me. So I came over. And found him. Somebody hit me from behind. Maybe they tased me. When I was able to move, I called 911.”
“Tased?” He gave me the once over. “Where?”
I showed him my neck. He leaned forward. “Can you show me your cell phone?”
I reached into my purse, grabbed my phone, and scrolled through the menu. The text was gone. “That’s impossible,” I said. “It was here. I texted him back. And I called, too.”
“What did his text say?” the detective asked.
“I love you. Come home now.” I took a breath. “I didn’t erase it.”
“We’ll check his phone records. Yours, too.” He pointed to my shorts. “How’d you get blood stains?”
“I already told you—the dog jumped on me.”
One of the men in overalls came into the dining room. He wore plastic gloves. The detective pointed at my phone. “Would you give that to Mr. Lawson, please?”
Mr. Lawson slid my phone into a paper bag. The detective rose. “Miss Templeton, come with me.”
He led me to the kitchen. Men in overalls were putting bags over Bing’s hands. A cop with a video camera moved through the kitchen into the breakfast room. A technician put plastic baggies over my hands and slipped rubber bands over my wrists, holding the bags in place.
“What’s this for?” I asked.
“Cross-contamination,” Purvis said.
“Of what?” I asked.
He ignored me. “You need to come to the station, Miss Templeton.”
“Why?”
“There’s a lot going on here.” He gestured to the men. “You might contaminate the crime scene.”
“I just need to get my dog,” I said, looking around for Sir. I clapped my hands, and the bags made a muffled whomp. When my dog didn’t come, I walked toward the hall. Purvis put his hand on my elbow.
“The dog has to be examined,” he said.
“Examined for what?”
He shifted his eyes but kept holding my arm. “You can fetch him later.”
“From where?”
“The pound.”
“No!” My eyes filled with tears as a bearded officer walked by holding my dog. I turned back to the detective. “Can you take his squeak toy?”
“He’ll be fine,” Purvis said.
He led me to a white car and put me in the back. I blinked at the metal grid that divided the front and back seats. Before he shut the door, I said, “Wait, are you arresting me?”
“No, ma’am. I just have some questions.”
“May I make a phone call?”
“Sure.” His jaw tightened. “At the station.”
fourteen
The Mount Pleasant Police Department was tiny compared to the large facility in North Charleston. A white-haired volunteer was fingerprinting a woman with frizzy red hair. A man in a Hawaiian shirt had his feet propped on a table. He was watching Days of Our Lives on a small television.
An official-looking man waited by the water fountain. His name tag identified him as Louis Qualls, a crime scene technician for the Charleston Police Department.
“She washed her hands,” Purvis said, removing the bags from my hands.
“I’ll need her clothes,” the technician said, then leaned over to swab my hands.
“What’s this for?” I asked.
“GPR,” the technician said. “Gunpowder residue.”
“You won’t find any,” I said.
The technician ignored me and opened a compartment in his field kit.
A female volunteer took me to the restroom and waited outside the stall while I undressed. I handed my clothes over the door. There was a rustling sound, and a striped jumpsuit fell into
A muscle twitched in Purvis’s jaw. “Okay, Miss Templeton. What time did you leave East Bay?”
“9:00 a.m.”
“Can anyone corroborate that?”
“No, sir. I don’t think so.”
“How did you enter the house?” he asked.
“The back door was open.” And it had been—this wasn’t a lie. I started to mention the key I’d put in my purse, but he cut me off.
“If you and the victim were broke up, why were you here?” he asked.
“He texted me. So I came over. And found him. Somebody hit me from behind. Maybe they tased me. When I was able to move, I called 911.”
“Tased?” He gave me the once over. “Where?”
I showed him my neck. He leaned forward. “Can you show me your cell phone?”
I reached into my purse, grabbed my phone, and scrolled through the menu. The text was gone. “That’s impossible,” I said. “It was here. I texted him back. And I called, too.”
“What did his text say?” the detective asked.
“I love you. Come home now.” I took a breath. “I didn’t erase it.”
“We’ll check his phone records. Yours, too.” He pointed to my shorts. “How’d you get blood stains?”
“I already told you—the dog jumped on me.”
One of the men in overalls came into the dining room. He wore plastic gloves. The detective pointed at my phone. “Would you give that to Mr. Lawson, please?”
Mr. Lawson slid my phone into a paper bag. The detective rose. “Miss Templeton, come with me.”
He led me to the kitchen. Men in overalls were putting bags over Bing’s hands. A cop with a video camera moved through the kitchen into the breakfast room. A technician put plastic baggies over my hands and slipped rubber bands over my wrists, holding the bags in place.
“What’s this for?” I asked.
“Cross-contamination,” Purvis said.
“Of what?” I asked.
He ignored me. “You need to come to the station, Miss Templeton.”
“Why?”
“There’s a lot going on here.” He gestured to the men. “You might contaminate the crime scene.”
“I just need to get my dog,” I said, looking around for Sir. I clapped my hands, and the bags made a muffled whomp. When my dog didn’t come, I walked toward the hall. Purvis put his hand on my elbow.
“The dog has to be examined,” he said.
“Examined for what?”
He shifted his eyes but kept holding my arm. “You can fetch him later.”
“From where?”
“The pound.”
“No!” My eyes filled with tears as a bearded officer walked by holding my dog. I turned back to the detective. “Can you take his squeak toy?”
“He’ll be fine,” Purvis said.
He led me to a white car and put me in the back. I blinked at the metal grid that divided the front and back seats. Before he shut the door, I said, “Wait, are you arresting me?”
“No, ma’am. I just have some questions.”
“May I make a phone call?”
“Sure.” His jaw tightened. “At the station.”
fourteen
The Mount Pleasant Police Department was tiny compared to the large facility in North Charleston. A white-haired volunteer was fingerprinting a woman with frizzy red hair. A man in a Hawaiian shirt had his feet propped on a table. He was watching Days of Our Lives on a small television.
An official-looking man waited by the water fountain. His name tag identified him as Louis Qualls, a crime scene technician for the Charleston Police Department.
“She washed her hands,” Purvis said, removing the bags from my hands.
“I’ll need her clothes,” the technician said, then leaned over to swab my hands.
“What’s this for?” I asked.
“GPR,” the technician said. “Gunpowder residue.”
“You won’t find any,” I said.
The technician ignored me and opened a compartment in his field kit.
A female volunteer took me to the restroom and waited outside the stall while I undressed. I handed my clothes over the door. There was a rustling sound, and a striped jumpsuit fell into
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