The only sleep she'd had since the accident was that unintentional nap last night. She was so tired her bones ached--or perhaps that was from the accident. She hoped the coffee would at least clear her foggy head.
Hearing a car pull up in front of her house, she went to the front window and looked out. The lane ended about forty feet from her front steps, as it used to stop in front of the big house. Deputy Trowbridge was getting out of his cruiser and putting on his hat. The slanting sun glinted off the brass nameplate on his chest, stabbing her eyes with a shaft of light. He reached back in the car and pulled out a small plastic box, then headed for her door.
She hadn't noticed before how young he was. He looked more like a fresh army recruit than an officer of the law. He moved with an air of arrogance that reminded her of his skeptical questioning at the hospital, spurring a streak of defensiveness in her.
Last night's resignation ducked behind her dislike of his attitude and the irrational hope that he was here to tell her the accident investigation team had concluded that Kyle Robard had been responsible for the accident, that he'd been drinking, or high; that she had been the victim.
Her mouth went dry as she took a deep calming breath and opened the door before he knocked.
"Ms. Whitman." He tipped the brim of his hat. "I apologize for the early call, but we have a few questions about the accident." He didn't sound at all sorry; he sounded as if he was going to relish every moment of what he was about to do.
She stepped back and opened the door wider. "Come in."
As he stepped across the threshold, he removed his hat. Abby wondered why he put it on for the short walk to the door in the first place. Probably for intimidation.
She realized he was just standing there, waiting.
"Please, sit down," she said.
He sat on the edge of the seat at one end of her sofa. Because it was the only place to sit in her living room, she sat at the other end.
His gaze moved from her face to her hands and back again. She realized she was twisting them in her lap. She tucked them beneath her thighs.
"First of all, we need your fingerprints, in order to help sort out the scene," he said.
When she didn't respond right away, he said, "Unless you have an objection...?"
"No. Of course not."
He opened the plastic box and took her fingerprints without further comment. When he was finished, he handed her a packet holding a towelette.
He settled back on his end of the couch, silently watching her while she cleaned the ink off her fingers.
Finally he spoke, "Have you remembered anything more since we last spoke?" There was a cutting edge to the way he said "remembered" that stuck like a thorn in tender skin.
She sat up straighter, biting her tongue to keep from snapping at him. She managed a calm, "No." It was true. She hadn't
remembered
.
He didn't respond for a long moment, just pinned her in place with his glacial stare.
Finally, he said, "I see."
He seemed to be waiting for her to elaborate. She didn't.
As he pulled a little flip notebook from his pocket, he said, "We've drawn a few conclusions. We were hoping you'd be able to corroborate them."
"As I said, I don't recall anything. But if something you say sparks a memory, I'll certainly tell you." Why couldn't he have stayed away? She'd feel so much more comfortable talking to Sheriff Hughes in his office, coming in on her own, not cornered like this.
"The accident happened shortly before three a.m. just prior to the 911 call--not near the time when you say you left Jeter's." He looked at her with expectation that set her teeth on edge.
"And you established this how?" She was hungry for solid facts.
"Kyle Robard was with a friend in town until two-thirty. Left there alone. The medical examiner established a time of death that backs this accident time."
Time of death.
She thought of that poor boy using the last of his fading strength to call for help and she flushed hot
Hearing a car pull up in front of her house, she went to the front window and looked out. The lane ended about forty feet from her front steps, as it used to stop in front of the big house. Deputy Trowbridge was getting out of his cruiser and putting on his hat. The slanting sun glinted off the brass nameplate on his chest, stabbing her eyes with a shaft of light. He reached back in the car and pulled out a small plastic box, then headed for her door.
She hadn't noticed before how young he was. He looked more like a fresh army recruit than an officer of the law. He moved with an air of arrogance that reminded her of his skeptical questioning at the hospital, spurring a streak of defensiveness in her.
Last night's resignation ducked behind her dislike of his attitude and the irrational hope that he was here to tell her the accident investigation team had concluded that Kyle Robard had been responsible for the accident, that he'd been drinking, or high; that she had been the victim.
Her mouth went dry as she took a deep calming breath and opened the door before he knocked.
"Ms. Whitman." He tipped the brim of his hat. "I apologize for the early call, but we have a few questions about the accident." He didn't sound at all sorry; he sounded as if he was going to relish every moment of what he was about to do.
She stepped back and opened the door wider. "Come in."
As he stepped across the threshold, he removed his hat. Abby wondered why he put it on for the short walk to the door in the first place. Probably for intimidation.
She realized he was just standing there, waiting.
"Please, sit down," she said.
He sat on the edge of the seat at one end of her sofa. Because it was the only place to sit in her living room, she sat at the other end.
His gaze moved from her face to her hands and back again. She realized she was twisting them in her lap. She tucked them beneath her thighs.
"First of all, we need your fingerprints, in order to help sort out the scene," he said.
When she didn't respond right away, he said, "Unless you have an objection...?"
"No. Of course not."
He opened the plastic box and took her fingerprints without further comment. When he was finished, he handed her a packet holding a towelette.
He settled back on his end of the couch, silently watching her while she cleaned the ink off her fingers.
Finally he spoke, "Have you remembered anything more since we last spoke?" There was a cutting edge to the way he said "remembered" that stuck like a thorn in tender skin.
She sat up straighter, biting her tongue to keep from snapping at him. She managed a calm, "No." It was true. She hadn't
remembered
.
He didn't respond for a long moment, just pinned her in place with his glacial stare.
Finally, he said, "I see."
He seemed to be waiting for her to elaborate. She didn't.
As he pulled a little flip notebook from his pocket, he said, "We've drawn a few conclusions. We were hoping you'd be able to corroborate them."
"As I said, I don't recall anything. But if something you say sparks a memory, I'll certainly tell you." Why couldn't he have stayed away? She'd feel so much more comfortable talking to Sheriff Hughes in his office, coming in on her own, not cornered like this.
"The accident happened shortly before three a.m. just prior to the 911 call--not near the time when you say you left Jeter's." He looked at her with expectation that set her teeth on edge.
"And you established this how?" She was hungry for solid facts.
"Kyle Robard was with a friend in town until two-thirty. Left there alone. The medical examiner established a time of death that backs this accident time."
Time of death.
She thought of that poor boy using the last of his fading strength to call for help and she flushed hot
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