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rearview mirror. He thought of her in his room—in the bed. Then he focused his attention forward as he pulled out into traffic.
    “Here on business?” he asked.
    “No, just got back. I’m finally headed home.”
    “What do you do? If you don’t mind me asking.”
    “No, I don’t mind. I’m a defense attorney for Stanley and Wallace.”
    “That’s over on West Cypress, right?”
    She looked up from her newspaper, nodded, and smiled.
    A few minutes later, he pulled to the front of her building. “Hold on one second. I’ll be right there for the door.”
    “Oh, okay.” She folded her paper and slid it under her arm.
    She was tossing her purse over her shoulder as he slid himself out of the driver’s side and took off his hat. His hand ran through his sweaty, stringy hair. A clump of hair stuck to his fingers. He flipped it away and pulled the hat back over his head. He reached into the pocket of the driver’s side door and pulled out a syringe. The index and middle finger of his right hand held the collar of the needle, and the tip of his thumb rested on the plunger. He opened her door. As she slid across the seat to exit, he leaned into the doorway and sank the syringe into her thigh.
    She tried to scream, so he covered her mouth. Her hands pried against his fingers. She’d just been filled with enough of the drug to knock her out for the rest of the day. Her grip on his hand became weak. He pushed her back into the car by the face and closed the door. The child locks prevented her single attempt to get out. Back in the driver’s seat, he turned the mirror on himself. His thin face was red. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and got lost in his beard. He checked his mirrors and pulled away from the front of her building. She was his.

Chapter 8
    The husband had a few hours to process that he’d lost his wife. Although that was just a short while, we had enough time to move past the initial emotional outbursts. Hank and I stood on the back side of the observation mirror, looking into interview room one or, as we called it, the Box. A uniform from the front had placed Ken McMillian in the room ten minutes prior. The amount of gray in his black hair told me he was in his late thirties, maybe early forties. He wore a blue polo shirt and light khakis. His glasses didn’t hide the fact that his eyes were red and swollen from crying. Rick had brought the lingerie she’d worn back up to me earlier. I wanted to see if the husband recognized the outfit. We hadn’t found any trace evidence on it. Hank and I had our line of questioning set. I set the equipment to record the interview. We walked inside.
    I greeted him as I entered. “Mr. McMillian, I’m Carl Kane. This is Hank Rawlings.”
    He nodded.
    “Can I get you anything before we get started?” Hank asked.
    “Maybe water?” His voice crackled.
    “Sure.”
    “Hank, can you grab him something from the lunchroom too?”
    “Sure.” Hank left the room.
    I sat across from McMillian and set the bag of clothes by my leg. I got my file ready. Hank returned a minute later with a bottle of water and a bag of potato chips. He placed them on the table in front of him and took up a seat next to me.
    “We want to give you our condolences before we start here today. We realize you have a lot to process. I know that this has to be unbelievably difficult for you. At the same time, the sooner we can compile information, the better the chances are of us getting to the bottom of this,” I said.
    He stared at his hands, folded in front of him. He looked up at me. “I’ll do anything to help.”
    “Thank you. Just so you are aware, we are recording this interview. While we do our best to take notes, being human, sometimes we can miss small details. We don’t want to miss anything. Sometimes the smallest, most insignificant things can turn into big leads. By having the interview recorded, we can go back if there’s ever anything in question. Are you okay with