“This is about the murder of Steve Markham,” she said. “We have some questions. Ms. Winter, you covered the Laney Markham murder trial as a journalist. We’re hoping you can help us.”
But there was more. Rain could tell by the intent way the agent stared at her. She had watery blue-green eyes, strawberry blond hair pulled back tight from her forehead. She knew. Rain could always tell when someone knew her history. There was a certain wondering, watchfulness. She pulled her robe tighter. She wasn’t going to feel bad about being in her pajamas at 6 a.m., but she wished she was dressed.
When Greg didn’t move, Rain put a hand on his arm. “It’s okay,” she said. “Come on in.”
“Sorry for the early hour,” Agent Brower said, stepping inside. Her partner was like a hulking shadow, silent.
“Can we get you some coffee?” offered Greg, stiffly polite.
“No, thank you.” Her partner also lifted his hand to decline. Agent Brower smiled and waved to Lily, who bounced enthusiastically in greeting. That kid. Was there anyone she didn’t like?
“Let’s sit in here,” said Rain, motioning to the living room.
They all sat, and Agent Brower launched into her questions right away: Was there anything about the investigation that she hadn’t reported? Had she received any threats, or been witness to any threats against Markham?
“It was long-form journalism,” Rain said. “So we had the luxury of in-depth reporting over a long period of time. We didn’t have to cut anything important, or relevant. We didn’t receive any threats, but I’m sure Markham had plenty, including those issued publicly by Laney’s family.”
“Was there anyone suspicious in the courtroom?” the agent asked. “Someone who was there daily? Someone who caught your notice.”
“There must be surveillance footage, right?” If Agent Brower noticed her deflection, she didn’t show it. “The room was full of reporters, cameras, as well.”
“We’re sifting through all of that now,” she said. “But I was wondering if you observed anyone, or anything odd.”
“No,” she lied. “I didn’t note anyone unsettling, suspicious.”
Why would she lie? When it came to Hank, it was second nature, some deep desire to protect him. He’d been in the courtroom a number of times; another thing about Hank she’d kept from Greg. It had come as a shock to see him, so many years after their last encounter—both of them adults with careers, ostensibly having moved past the horror movie of their past. He was there when the verdict was handed down. She supposed it had something to do with his work. Certainly, he wasn’t suspicious; he was a psychiatrist, an expert witness who’d testified at numerous trials. They’d avoided each other, never spoke. Their last encounter had been an ugly one. She didn’t want to talk to him again. Ever.
The letters had started shortly after the Markham trial ended. The first one was an apology for the way things had gone between them, for the things he said.
The agent watched her a moment, then: “You were one of Eugene Kreskey’s victims.”
“One of the lucky ones,” Rain said. There was that word again.
“You’re aware, of course, that someone killed him,” said the agent. She’d leaned forward a little; Rain had shifted back in her seat, closer to Greg, who took her hand. “Like Steve Markham, he was killed the way he killed.”
“I did take note of that,” she said. Her voice sounded thin, too soft. She cleared her throat and deepened it. “In fact, I am considering writing a story.”
“Have you started your investigation?” Agent Brower asked, her eyebrows raised.
“I’ve done some early research,” said Rain. “Do you think there’s a connection?”
“Do you?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she said. “Seems possible.”
Agent Shultz still hadn’t said a word. He stood and walked over to their bookshelves, lifted one from its place, then turned back to Rain.
“Are you still in touch with Dr. Hank Reams?”
He held one of Hank’s books in his hand: Surviving Trauma. “We correspond occasionally,” she said. “We’re not close.”
This was as near to the truth as she could get. She wondered if Greg would chime in. He’s obsessed with her. She had an affair with him, before we were married but while we were dating. I asked her to choose and she chose me. And yet. And yet. He sends her letter after letter. We suspect that sometimes he watches her, though we’ve never been able to prove it.