Sam heard himself say. “Could you describe your relationship? How were things between you and Jake?”
“Good,” she said in a rush. “I mean, you know, it was mostly good. Relationships can be tricky.”
Rufus appeared in the hallway again. He held a phone up high and waved it a little, then made a crossing motion with his hands to suggest something was wrong.
That he couldn’t get beyond the passcode, Sam suspected.
“Jake worked a lot,” Natalie was saying. “He was a detective with the NYPD.”
Sam knew that Rufus’s semaphores were important. He knew that what Natalie had said was important; she had practically held the door open for him to ask about Jake’s work. But what he heard in his head—what he saw, like that sign flashing Dear Evan Hansen when he’d left Port Authority building—was good. Things had been good. Good, good, good. And then, he had a hundred questions: did he ever roll over and kiss your shoulder after? Did he ever want to lace your fingers together while you made love? Did he hide things around the apartment, knowing you’d find them—movie tickets, a coupon for fifty percent off a burger, a four by six of the two of you on the Chattahoochee, just sun and skin and water?
It was harder than Sam thought to slam the door on all of it.
“I’m sorry,” he managed to say, tapping furiously at his phone. “I should have done this at the beginning. Could you confirm your full name and date of birth for the record?”
“Oh sure,” she said quickly, automatically, like she’d been questioned so much in the last week about Jake this was simply more routine. “Natalie Miller. May 23, 1989.”
Rufus, still in the hallway, shook his head and made that crossing motion again. He held up five fingers.
Five more attempts to unlock.
Damn it.
“And your Social Security number?”
Natalie looked surprised. “You really need that?”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, frowning. “I thought someone explained all of this to you when they set up the appointment.”
“Appointment? I was never—it’s been a very hectic week. I must have… missed the call or something.” Her cheeks grew red, her brows knitted together, and she clasped a hand over her mouth. She looked ready to take the blame for everything. For Sam’s inconvenience. For the failed appointment. For Jake’s death.
“Yes, well. I’m very sorry for your loss. The Army has begun doing these sorts of follow-ups after death by suicide. It’s all procedure, you understand. Trying to prevent future tragedies. The records are very thorough. We’re doing our best to understand what happened. So”—he offered a soft smile—“your Social?”
Natalie sniffled loudly and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. With her chin practically tucked to her chest, she rattled off a series of numbers.
Rufus had crept closer to the main room in order to overhear their conversation. After Natalie gave her social, he typed, shook his head, typed once more, then met Sam’s eyes and held up three fingers.
Three more attempts.
“And when was your anniversary with Mr. Brower?”
Natalie gave a watery chuckle and wiped at her pale cheeks. “Well, it’s funny. I always said it was July third. Jake insisted it was July second. But the clock had rolled over. So it was after midnight.”
Rufus rolled his eyes like a clock—one of those old flip-number alarms—as he tried the next series of numbers. He immediately held up the phone to show Sam the unlocked homepage before he retreated to the bathroom.
Sam didn’t grin, not on the outside. But he had to admit, the look of triumph on the redhead’s face had been… cute. Like the caricature of suspicion earlier. So many emotions, all of them worn so close to that very fair skin. It could distract a guy.
“Thank you,” Sam said. “You mentioned work. Did Mr. Brower talk about work with you? Was there anything he mentioned that stood out to you, or maybe something small that came up repeatedly?”
“Jake never talked about work with me,” Natalie said, finally her words bathed in a tone of negativity. Resentment, perhaps. “It was always confidential.”
“Of course,” Sam said. “What about his partner? Or other coworkers? Friends? Family? Did he have a good support system? Any recent conflicts? Or long-term strain on those relationships?”
Natalie rolled her little shoulders a few times. “He had me. My parents. He hadn’t kept in touch with anyone from the Army, but he had more recent friendships with people here in the city.”
Sam ran his hand over the cushion, smoothing the tight