In Close by Brenda Novak

the back window. They were right there in the living room, next to the couch.”
    “Shit… Why would Weaver lie?”
    Isaac rubbed his chin as he answered. “He wasn’t expecting me to check.”
    “But he volunteered that information, correct?”
    “I believe he wants to appear more contrite than he feels—”
    “Prick!”
    “—so that no one looks any closer.”
    She studied Isaac from beneath her lashes. “He killed David on purpose.”
    “That’s my guess.”
    “This changes everything.”
    “It could.”
    Or it could lead nowhere. She’d learned, long ago, not to get her hopes up. “We’d have to prove it, find someone in Pineview who has some connection to him. And that might be easier said than done.”
    “Not if we get the sheriff involved again,” he said. “Someone needs to take a look at his phone records, and that requires a subpoena.”
    “Do you think one lie over whether or not he still owns guns will be enough to get a judge to sign off? It’s such an invasion of privacy. He’s an attorney. That’ll make everyone cautious.”
    “I’m going to do some more research first, see if I can come up with more on him.”
    With a nod, she forced herself to finish her tea. But when she stood to carry her cup to the sink, he took it from her and rinsed it himself.
    “Feeling better?”
    “A little.” It was true. But she was pretty sure his presence and his support had more to do with it than anything else.

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14
    D ust motes swirled in the late-afternoon sunlight pouring through the window. Claire watched them shimmy above the table as she sat in April’s kitchen, awaiting the glass of iced tea April had offered her. Far too warm, even in her skirt, sandals and lightweight top, she shifted uncomfortably. If April had air-conditioning, she wasn’t using it. She’d turned on a fan when they walked through the living room, but it wasn’t enough.
    There were other signs of cost-cutting. Drab, well-worn furniture. Sheets in place of blinds. Tattered rugs covering the wooden floor. The house itself was so old it still had a cast-iron stove in the corner. But it was clean and well-maintained and smelled like fresh paint. And it was only a block off Main Street. Grandma Bigelow, who’d taught piano lessons most of her life, had owned it for sixty years before she passed away. Now April rented it from Roger Bigelow and his son Clyde, who also owned a big cattle ranch outside town.
    “I can’t believe it’s taken you so long to come to me.”
    It was April who’d broken the silence, but this wasn’t even close to what Claire had imagined she’d say. “Excuse me?”
    Ice clinked against glass as April put her drink down. “After what I told the police years ago, I expected to hear from you sooner.”
    Claire wasn’t sure how to respond to this. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing in the case files about you or anything you said.”
    April’s expression bordered on belligerent. “My statement has to be there. I signed it and everything.”
    “I’m telling you, there’s nothing from or about you.” At least not in the accordion file Claire had found at the studio. She’d read everything twice.
    She blinked. “How do you know? The police might not be telling you everything.”
    “I’ve seen the files.”
    “All of them?”
    “I think so. What I read seemed pretty exhaustive.” When she explained about what she’d discovered at her mother’s studio, disgust curled April’s lip.
    “Why should I be surprised my statement went missing?” she said.
    “What does that mean?” Claire asked.
    “We live in a small town where everyone knows everyone else.”
    “You’re saying you think someone deep-sixed it? On purpose? ”
    “As a favor to a friend, namely your father. He’s an important figure around here these days.”
    Since the inheritance. He hadn’t been important before he became wealthy. He’d worked by the hour in a gun shop. But Claire didn’t