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believe in polygraphs! And you know what,” he added, heading toward the door, “I’m all done talking here. I need to leave.”
    Ross and Wundrach looked at each other.
    They had rattled George Fulton’s cage.
    But how?

9
    T HE SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT kept Emily and Andrew at the substation for quite some time that night and well into the next morning. It wasn’t until the sun seemed to be peeking its shine over the nearest mountain range, casting a hue of banana yellow across the lake, that Andrew and Emily finally went home. That statement Emily had given regarding knowing who did it, accusing “that woman”—on top of Emily talking about seeing how “it” happened—sparked some interest within the rank and file of the sheriff ’s department. Before taking Gail’s kids back to the house on Talon Circle, investigators separated Andrew and Emily and checked their hands and clothes for gun residue, a common galvanic skin response (GSR) test sometimes referred to by cops as the “invisible clue.” If either had shot a weapon within the past twenty-four hours (and had not been wearing gloves), this test would show traces of blow-back powder and residue from the gun going off in their hands.
    Both Emily and Andrew tested negative.
    “I’m sure they thought I was cuckoo,” Emily said later, referring to her paranormal statements.
    Before they were taken home, Emily said, “I want to see my dad.” An investigator was taking a complete statement from her. “Where is he?”
    “You cannot see your father until you’re finished here,” Emily claimed the investigator told her.
    When they returned to the house, Emily and Andrew were emotionally and physically exhausted. What a night. As the fog of what had happened began to clear, the impact of Gail’s death settled. Their mother was gone. Gail was the kids’ rock, the anchor of the household. She was the go-to parent—the person they could depend on to be there for whatever the reason. Now she was gone. They’d have to call family and friends. Make arrangements. What a word—“arrangements”—to describe a death, as if you were setting up a dinner or meeting with school officials. There’d be a funeral. A mass. Tears. Questions. Anger. It was coming in waves, Emily felt, like a car heading into a busy intersection.
    A collision course.
    Yet, for Emily, when she speaks about that night and the following days, one gets a sense that it was almost as if days or weeks before it had occurred, she had seen a film of this night—and she had been expecting it.
    “He was crying,” Emily said, discussing her father’s response. “He seemed really upset.” The magnitude of his wife’s murder had, apparently, just hit George Fulton.
    After they had a moment together, Emily, with Andrew by her side, sat down next to George and said, “Dad, you know Donna did this, right?”
    “What! No way! Not a chance.”
    “How can you say that? That was the first thought that came to my mind without even thinking! How can you deny otherwise, Dad?”
    George had his head in his hands. “No way. . . .”
    Emily had a background with Donna Trapani, George’s boss and former mistress. They had spoken on several occasions over the phone and even met once at a nearby hotel. Emily felt she knew Donna. It all seemed to fit. Donna came up to Michigan—as she had in the past—from her home in Florida and took out the competition. The woman was crazy and insane. According to one former coworker, Donna Trapani was “extremely bipolar.” This was it. Donna had snapped and Gail paid the price. Gail had expressed an issue with Donna that might lead to one of them killing the other. Emily thought about this as George tried to talk her out of blaming Donna. Now it had come to pass. Mom was dead. What additional proof did any of them actually need?
    “No, no . . . no!” George repeated, as if speaking from some sort of firsthand knowledge. “Not a chance. No, she didn’t,