Every Last Secret - A.R. Torre Page 0,71

I met her in my cheap sundress, but I had never been happy. Not while my father was home, and not until I was out of that horrible town and had my first taste of financial stability. She thought I changed Matt, but his lifestyle had been what changed me. He’d given me a taste of the good life, and I’d binged on each middle-class bite until I’d developed more expensive tastes.

From behind us, an officer wiped his boots on my mat. “No one’s on the property. I’ve got lights moving through the back woods, but that’s a wild-goose chase. There are at least six different directions he could have gone in. Right now uniforms are tightening up security and doing vehicle checks at each neighborhood exit.”

She nodded. “Go next door to the Winthorpes’. See if they’ve seen anything, and make sure they’re all locked up.”

Oh, poor Cat. She was probably still feeble from her “poisoning.” I hoped the gunman didn’t go in their often-unlocked door. I hoped he didn’t find his way to their bedroom. I hoped dear little Cat hadn’t been a casualty of his panic. Gag.

She glanced at me. “You know anything about the property on your other side?”

I shook my head. “The Rusynzks are gone for the summer.”

The officer nodded. “I’ll check windows and doors on both places,” he offered.

“Look for cameras. If they got ’em, get footage.”

“Will do.” He turned and pulled the door closed behind him, his hand casually resting on the butt of his weapon.

The detective stepped farther into the house, rounding the corner and entering the great space. Looking down at her pad, she flipped over a page. “Mrs. Ryder, we’re going to bring your husband inside and go through a few questions together.”

My shoulder rubbed against Matt’s, and I don’t know why he didn’t change his shirt before they got here. He was in a thin ribbed tank top, his slight man boobs sagging, the fat of his underarms squishing against his sides. His skin felt clammy and slid against my deltoid in a disgusting way. I shifted a little to the side, wanting to break the contact, and felt the detective’s eyes follow the action.

“I woke up with the gun in my mouth.” Matt swallowed hard. “It was pressing against my teeth, shoving my head back.”

“And then he pulled the trigger?”

“Yes. There was a click, but nothing came out. A misfire. He looked at the gun and then ran.”

“You’re lucky,” the detective remarked. “Both of you are.” She glanced at me, and I tried to assume a look of gratefulness.

Oh yes. So lucky. One shot and Matt could have died. I would have been a widow. Instead, we were here, dealing with all this, a crowd of strangers trampling through our house, my husband fully intact beside me, not a single hair harmed on his head. So lucky.

Detective Cullen moved down a list of questions, and I stayed quiet, listening to Matt’s responses.

An accent? No.

Did he sound familiar? No.

Was he tall? Short? I couldn’t really tell. I was in bed, looking up at him. Maybe six feet tall? Maybe?

How was his hair? Short? Long? Bald? He had on a hat. Wait, a ski mask.

Did he move smoothly? Limp? Have any distinguishable characteristics whatsoever?

No.

No.

No.

As she moved through the questions, she grew more and more frustrated at how inept Matt’s observation skills were. I know, I wanted to chime in. You have no idea how many affairs I’ve carried on right underneath his nose! I’m not surprised he had a gun stuck in his mouth and still didn’t manage to pay attention.

“Is something funny, Mrs. Ryder?”

I sat straighter in my seat. “No.”

“You’re smiling,” she pointed out. “Surely you don’t find this amusing.”

Matt was looking at me now, his features pinching in annoyance. A burst of anger popped in my chest. It was three in the morning! How was anyone supposed to keep their wits about them at this ungodly hour? “I’m exhausted.” I rose to my feet. “Can we finish these questions in the morning? I didn’t even see the guy. Or hear him.”

“Yes . . . ,” she said slowly. “Because you ‘slept right through it all.’” She put air quotes around the last part of the sentence, and I gawked at her nerve.

“I told you what happened. I woke up with Matt screaming at me to call 9-1-1 as he ran downstairs.” I glared at her and dared her to call me a liar.

“Mrs. Ryder—”

“Dr. Ryder,” I corrected, unable to