hers, so be it. But it wasn’t often that a witness was able to unsettle him so thoroughly—and quickly.
“Did you catch him?” she asked. “Did he say why? Why us? Why—Ian?”
“No, ma’am. We’re still investigating.” He slid his phone free, reached across the space separating them, and set it on the small glass shelf above the sink. “I’ll be recording this, if you don’t mind.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
“Later, we’ll do a formal interview down at the station.” Probably more than one—new questions always arose in a case like this, new memories unveiled as shock receded. “I might also need to ask you to walk through the scene—your house.” He wasn’t at all certain about the last, in fact, he’d prefer to avoid it. Victims always underestimated the trauma of returning to the scene in the light of day. But right now he had so little to go on, it might be necessary, if only to see if anything had been taken by the killer.
“I’ll go, but not Emily,” she replied, obviously assuming he meant some sort of reconstruction.
“Is there anyone you want me to call for you? Family? Friends?”
She blinked as if surprised by his question, as if it had never occurred to her to ask for help. “Ian’s parents, they’re in Seattle. I need to call them…” Her words trailed off.
“The coroner’s office can make arrangements for someone to go to their home, tell them in person.”
“No, no.” She was shaking her head even though her gaze never left her daughter, giving Luka only her profile. “I’ll do it. I just need—” Now she closed her eyes for a long moment. “I’ll do it.”
He didn’t push the point, allowing her the pretense of control over at least one small portion of her life. “Anyone I can call, for you? To help with your daughter?”
Another, longer pause. He’d been hoping for a list of family contacts—they were always good for background on the victim. But he’d made a mistake when he mentioned Emily. Leah’s expression went stony; there was no way in hell she’d trust anyone with her daughter.
When she didn’t answer, Luka pivoted. “Tell me about yesterday. Start in the morning and walk me through your day. Anything that stood out, anything you think I should know.”
Her hands were braced against the edge of the sink, fingers gripping it tight as if that was the only thing keeping her on her feet. But she nodded again, even though she still wasn’t making eye contact, staring past him out the door. Her chest rose as she took one breath, then another.
As he watched the emotions roil through her, barely perceptible, Luka realized how hard she was working to compartmentalize her feelings. It made sense; she was an ER doctor, used to dealing with blood and trauma in others—of course she’d take control, distance herself from feeling anything, especially with her daughter to care for. His job was to break through those barriers, extract the information he needed to find her husband’s killer.
“Yesterday,” she finally said, her voice low as if reading a bedtime story. Or, more likely, amazed to discover that yesterday still existed in her memory, on the other side of the crevasse that separated now from then. “Yesterday was a normal Monday. I’m working noon to midnight this week. No matter my schedule, we always try to have breakfast together. Ian got Emily ready for school, he was dressed for morning office hours and then he was off the rest of the day. I was still in my pajamas—” A ghost of a smile flitted across her face. “Emily got them for me for Christmas. Dancing hippos. And then…” Another breath. “Then they were gone. The house was quiet. A good kind of quiet. Peaceful.”
He nodded—not that she was looking in his direction. Luka totally understood what she was describing; he enjoyed that sort of quiet too. It would explain the well-lived-in living room, truly a family room, the center of their days and nights. He had a feeling when they ran the credit cards and financials they weren’t going to find many charges for nights out on the town. Groceries, clothes for a growing girl, Netflix or the Disney channel, maybe a few trips to the local museums—three tickets, two adults, one child.
Family like that, with a capital F—he’d had it, growing up. Hoped he might again with Cherise. Before that dream died. He’d thought he’d left those dreams behind, outgrown them. But something about Leah Wright’s