Page 27 of If She Only Knew (The Cahills 1)

“That’s right.” She frowned, angry with herself. “I think I’m going to sound like a broken record.”

“Yes.”

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She reached for her juice and sipped as the detective went through a series of questions for which she had no answers. Outside the room, medication carts rattled, people talked, the bell for the elevator doors chimed. Inside 505, the feeling was tense and Marla didn’t like the detective’s attitude—as if she’d caused the accident and nearly killed herself intentionally. “You know, this feels a little like an inquisition,” she finally said. She fiddled with her straw, then set her glass aside.

“Just tryin’ to sort out everything.”

“I really can’t help you.” Her back was beginning to go up, she was tired and her head was pounding like crazy.

“You were driving Pam Delacroix’s car, right?”

“I . . . I guess so. That’s what everyone says, so I assume it’s true,” she said hotly. “Now, listen, don’t you have to let me talk to an attorney, Mirandaize me or whatever it’s called?”

“That you remember?”

“I told you . . . little strange things. Maybe I saw it on an episode of . . . of . . .”

“NYPD Blue? Law and Order?”

“I . . . I don’t know . . .”

He studied her through quick, intelligent eyes. “You really want to call a lawyer? I’m not here to arrest you, you understand.”

“I don’t have anything to hide.” At least nothing I can recall, she thought, but bit back the words. She just wanted this interview to be over, to close her eyes, to hope that her medication would kick in and fight the pain throbbing in her jaw and hammering at her skull. And she wanted to shake this feeling that her life was spinning out of control, that there were unspoken questions hanging in the air, questions that were somehow too evil, too incriminating to utter aloud.

“Okay.” Paterno chewed his gum furiously between his back teeth. “How about the semi careening toward you? It jackknifed, went off the far side of the road and the driver— Charles Biggs—is barely holding on in a burn ward at a hospital across town. We’re hoping he wakes up and can remember something.”

Marla went cold inside at the thought of the trucker. “The poor man,” she whispered, glancing out the window to the gray afternoon. Her fate suddenly didn’t seem so bad. She silently prayed that she hadn’t been the cause of the accident, that her negligence hadn’t killed her friend, a woman she couldn’t remember, as well as maimed a stranger she’d never met. A cloud of depression threatened to settle on her shoulders. How would she ever live with herself if it turned out the accident was her fault? Oh, God, please . . . no. I won’t be able to survive the guilt . . . Swallowing a thick lump in her throat, she gave herself a quick mental kick for this case of the “poor me” blues. “Why don’t you tell me what happened that night,” she suggested, deciding it was best to face the ugly truth rather than hearing what could very well be her family’s sugar-coated version. She impaled Paterno with her gaze. “I want to hear the facts.”

“Just the facts, all the facts and nothing but the facts?”

What was that, some kind of dumb joke? She lifted a shoulder. “I . . . I suppose.”

“It’s part of an old TV cop routine,” he said, and she realized he’d tried to gain a reaction from her. He was testing her to see how much she really did remember. As if what—he didn’t believe her? Why would she fake amnesia? Was there something she didn’t know about herself, something that would make him distrust her?

Paterno lowered himself into the single plastic chair stuffed into one corner of the room. “From what we can tell from the skid marks, you were driving Pamela Delacroix’s Mercedes south, presumably going to Santa Cruz where Pamela’s daughter, Julie, attended college. You rounded a corner going uphill and swerved. The truck, coming from the opposite direction, braked hard to avoid you or whatever it was you were trying to miss. It jackknifed and went through the guardrail on one side of the road, your car broke through on the other. Pamela wasn’t wearing a seat belt and was thrown out of the car. Her neck was broken and she died instantly.” Marla’s stomach tightened. Bile rose in her throat at the sheer horror and the guilt of it all. “The semi rolled down the hill through the woods before hitting a tree and exploding. Someone saw the fireball and called 911 just before the first witnesses, an older couple heading north, arrived.”

Marla closed her eyes, shaken, the images he sketched painted in vivid colors in her mind. Tears burned her eyelids and she felt suddenly ill, as if she might throw up. “I’m sorry,” she whispered clumsily.

“Me, too.” The detective didn’t sound as if he meant it, and when she met his eyes again she saw a hardness within their dark depths, disbelief and accusation shimmering just below the surface of his gaze. Another cop who’d seen too much.

Getting to his feet, he fished in his pocket and placed a card on the table. He snapped off the recorder and jammed it into his pocket. “That’s it for today, but if you remember anything, contact me.”

“I will,” she promised, then noticed movement in the partially open doorway. She’d been concentrating so hard on Paterno and the accident she hadn’t seen Nick arrive. She wondered how long he’d been there, how much he’d heard.

“Isn’t she supposed to have a lawyer present when she talks to the police?” he asked stepping into the room. His black hair glistened as if he’d been in the rain, his eyes touched hers for a heart-stopping second, then his gaze skated away to focus on the detective. Paterno flipped his notebook closed and dropped it into a pocket.

“Mrs. Cahill and I have already been through this. She hasn’t been charged with anything.”

“Alex said something about possible manslaughter.”

Her blood ran cold. Her head thundered. Was that possible? Prison?

“We haven’t ruled anything out,” the detective said, rubbing his jaw. “You’re not the husband?”

“No.” Nick’s voice was firm and he glanced at Marla for a second, sending her a silent unreadable message that even in that short instant made her realize that he was making a point. “I’m her brother-in-law. ‘The husband’s’ brother. Nick Cahill.” He offered the detective his hand.

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