Read Say You're Sorry for Free Online Page B

drove to the farmhouse, almost missing the turn because it was snowing so heavily. He couldn’t drive all the way to the house because of the snow, so he stopped and walked the rest of the way.
    “The house was dark. There was no power. I saw a light in the upstairs window but it was strange, you know, not like a lamp or a candle.” He covers his ears. “I heard her screaming.”
    “Mrs. Heyman?”
    Augie nods. “I bashed down the door. Hurt my shoulder. I went up the stairs, but the flames pushed me back.”
    He starts to hyperventilate as though breathing in smoke and holds his hands against his forehead, hitting his temple.
    “How did you burn your hands?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Did you hit Mr. Heyman?”
    He shakes his head.
    “Did you start the fire?”
    “No, no.”
    Without warning, he stands and walks to the far side of the room, whispering to himself, arguing.
    “Are you talking to someone, Augie?”
    He shakes his head.
    “Who is it?”
    He crouches and peers past me as though something is creeping up behind me like a pantomime wolf.
    “Tell me about your brother.”
    He hesitates. “Can you see him too?”
    “No. Tell me about him.”
    “Sometimes he steals my memories.”
    “Is that all he does?”
    “He warns me about people.”
    “What does he say?”
    “He says they’re trying to poison me.”
    “What people?”
    “It’s in the air.”
    “Why did you really go to the farmhouse, Augie?”
    “To get my wages.”
    “I don’t believe you.”
    Augie puts his bandaged hands together, as though pleading with me. A flush on the back of his neck spreads to his hairline.
    “God will judge me if I’m lying.”
    “God can’t help you now.”
    “He can. He must.”
    “Why?”
    “Who else is going to stop the devil?”
    Drury’s office is on the second floor. No posters. Minimal furniture. I expect to see commendations and photographs on the walls, but instead he has a whiteboard with timelines, names and photographs—a murder tree as opposed to a family tree.
    Condensation beads the window and tiny splinters of ice seem to be trapped within the glass. The DCI leans back in his chair and crosses his legs, brushing lint from his trousers.
    “So what do you make of him?”
    “He’s delusional, possibly schizophrenic.”
    “You diagnosed that in an hour?”
    “I diagnosed that in five minutes.”
    Drury drains a plastic bottle of water, tossing it towards the bin. “How do I interview him?”
    “Right now he’s locked into damage control. He’s strong physically but not psychologically. Keep the sessions short with plenty of breaks. Don’t hammer certain points—let him reveal the story in his own way. If he gets upset, let him retreat. Treat him like a victim not a perpetrator.”
    “Will he confess?”
    “He’s saying he didn’t do it.”
    “But that’s bullshit, right?”
    “He’s hiding something but I don’t know what that is.”
    Fierceness fills the detective’s eyes and he looks at me with a mixture of impatience and irritation. He gets up, walks round the desk, his body humming with tension.
    “It was the worst blizzard in a century yet this kid drives a mile through the storm. I think he went there for revenge. He was obsessed with the daughter. He was angry about being sacked. We can put him at the scene. He had the motive and the opportunity.”
    “Whoever did this didn’t panic. They tried to destroy any evidence with bleach and fire. This is organized thinking. Higher intellect. That doesn’t sound like Augie Shaw.”
    “How did his hands get burned?”
    “He tried to save her.”
    “He fled the scene.”
    “He panicked.”
    The DCI has heard enough. “This is bullshit! Augie Shaw murdered the husband and then raped the wife. He wanted revenge. He killed those poor people and I’m going to prove it.” Drury opens the door. “Thanks for your help, Professor. I’ll have a car drop you back to your hotel.”
    I pick up my jacket and look at my