Proof of Murder (Beyond the Page Bookstore Mystery #4) - Lauren Elliott Page 0,44

prove I was at home, too!”

“Unfortunately for you, Miss Greyborne”—Ryley’s eyes flashed and narrowed to tiny slits—“laptops, like cell phones, are portable, and it could have been accessed from anywhere.”

“What are you thinking? That I sat out on the road in the middle of the night in front of one of the creepiest houses in town and researched the value of two books that aren’t even missing from the library? But then I broke in so I could steal a set of other books?” Addie swallowed, but it was no use. Her mouth had gone too dry to dislodge the lump lodged in her throat.

Marc flipped open the file folder in front of him. Without a word, he pulled out a photo the investigation team had taken of the window latch in the library. Then slapped a photo of a fingerprint on top of it. This was repeated with a series of other pictures taken in the library of the center table, the desk, and the fireplace hearth. Each one had a corresponding photo of fingerprints. The last picture he tossed down on the pile showed notched markings around the exterior of the bottom window sash.

Ryley reached down beside her chair and retrieved a small plastic evidence bag from her black case and pushed it across the table. “Does this look familiar?”

Addie swallowed and then swallowed again. Nothing seemed to be able to dislodge the lump. “That looks like the tip of an acrylic fingernail.”

“You’d be right.” Agent Brookes studied Addie’s hands. “I’d say it might just be a perfect match to the one that’s missing from there.” She tapped the tip of her pen on the desk in front of Addie’s index finger.

“I know how this appears, but there’s an explanation, for all of this,” Addie said, waving her hand over the pictures. “First, my nail broke when Kalea and I were moving boxes of books. I thought it had dropped into one of them and wasn’t about to go digging around for it. And all these fingerprints? Yes, I was in the room and did try to open the window. I have pictures of Kalea and I fooling around, trying to get it open when the stuffiness in the room started to make us both dizzy.”

“Where are the pictures?”

“On my phone.”

“Your phone wasn’t in your possession when you were brought in, and it’s not at your house.”

“Wait.” Addie glared at Ryley and Marc. “You searched my house, too?”

He nodded. “Standard procedure when an arrest warrant is issued. A search warrant is, too.”

“We have your computer, and we’ll check out your search history, but where’s your phone, Addie?” Ryley pinned her with a glare. “Is there a reason you don’t want us to find it? Are you hiding something on there?”

“It’s . . .”

Marc leaned forward. “Why are you hesitating in answering the question?”

“I’m not,” Addie snapped. “I’m trying to think where it could be, and . . .” She couldn’t help but notice the sideways glance between Marc and Ryley. “Wait, I remember! Serena had to borrow it last night before dinner because hers was dead. She must still have it. But I can tell you, I did not, nor did Kalea, ever get that window opened.”

“How can we be so sure?”

“Because if you go back and look closer, Agent Brookes,” Addie said, crossing her arms on the table and leaning forward, “you’ll see that it’s impossible. The sash is too old and warped. It won’t open even with this evidence that you think you have.” She pointed to the photo of the damaged exterior window frame. “Someone, not me, has tried to jimmy the window open from the outside.”

“How do you explain your broken nail being found outside at the base of the wall under the window?”

Addie wanted to slap the smug look off Ryley’s face but held herself back. After all, Brookes was an FBI agent and not just some regular woman who happened to be marking her territory with Marc.

“I can’t. But was there any evidence of my footprints in the soil?” Addie’s gaze darted from Ryley to Marc. “Remember, it rained earlier that evening, and if I’d been there breaking in as you are suggesting by all this, I would have left some trace outside other than that.” Addie stabbed her finger on the evidence bag. “You both surprise me. As trained detectives, you’ve missed one crucial element here that even a fiction writer such as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle employed in the writings