Page 85 of I'll Be Waiting

This is why I refused to give the police more than the facts, forcing them to make all the interpretations.

Because I had doubts?

I pull back the memories I just relived. In that moment, kneelingbeside Heather’s body, even as reason told me Patrice killed her, I hadn’t been ready to commit to that absolute certainty.

Shadows in the forest. The crack of twigs. The rustle of dead leaves.

I need to tell you something. A secret.

Hairs rise on my arms, but I rub them hard, bristling with annoyance. What the hell am I thinking? That Anton murdered Heather? That Patrice’s injuries weren’t self-inflicted? That she’d been attacked and posed with that knife?

But I’d seen her grab it.

No, I just saw her touch it. What if she was only reaching out, getting her bearings, trying to rise, and her hand brushed the staged knife?

I never saw herholdingit.

I close my eyes and resurrect the memories. Patrice lifting her head, gaze locking with mine. Her hand reaching toward the knife. Her fingers grazing the handle.

I’d run then.

What if I got it wrong?

It doesn’t matter, because it wasn’t up to me to interpret. I gave the facts. That’s all.

I can hear the prosecutor asking whether it was Patrice who’d shouted that she’d gut “Samantha.”

“I thought so at the time.”

“You thought so, Janica? You aren’t sure?”

I hesitate, panic rising. Am I supposed to say I’m sure? Is that what he wants?

I should say it was Patrice. I was sure at the time.

Was I?

I tell the truth. “The voice was raw, hoarse. At the time, I thought it was Patrice. But if you’re asking whether it couldn’t possibly have been anyone else, I can’t say that.”

He’d been disappointed. I’d seen that. But afterward, when I fretted, Mom said I’d done the right thing. Dad agreed.

Tell the truth. Let the police and prosecution make a case. That wasn’t my job.

I wish I’d thanked my parents for that advice. I realize now why they’d been so adamant that I only tell the truth, no matter how hard anyone pushed for more. I should not make any assumptions or feel any pressure to say anything I wasn’t sure of. Because if I did, and I ever doubted Patrice’s guilt, my words would come back to haunt me.

I leave the sitting room. When I reach the living room, the clock strikes five, and I flinch. Cocktail hour. Shit, I really don’t want that today.

I glance around, but no one’s in sight. Maybe they’ve forgotten it, too. Good. I swing through the living room, where I left my laptop, and take it outside to a small wooden table and chair in the gardens, close enough to still pick up the house’s Wi-Fi signal.

I sit facing the house, so I can see anyone coming out. It’ll be dinnertime soon. Jin was grabbing takeout, relieving Mrs. Kilmer of her catering tasks while she searched for her son. I’ll keep an ear out for the sound of his car.

I launch my browser. I’m about to start searching for the case when a little voice whispers to open a VPN and put the browser into incognito mode.

Incognito mode? I’m not researching how to make a bomb. I’m looking at a twenty-two-year-old murder case to refresh my memory and see whether I could have missed anything.

A murder case that hit national news. A murder case that involved me under another name.

A murder case that also involved my dead husband, even if the rest of the world never knew that.

---