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suicide.”
    â€œWe haven’t released any official comment to news outlets.”
    â€œWhat did he say?”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œSterling Marshall. What did he say in the note?”
    He exhaled. “I’m not here to talk about what you read on the Web.”
    â€œWas there a note?”
    â€œWhen was the last time you spoke to your father-in-law?”
    â€œI told you. I don’t know.”
    In the letter, Sterling Marshall had told Kelly that he’d helped Shane to start a photo archive business. He’d promised to keep supporting him, to make sure he’s always taken care of, but only if you do what needs to be done. Underneath the table, Kelly’s fists clenched up.
    â€œWere you aware that Mr. Marshall owned a gun?”
    She looked at him. “No.”
    â€œDid you ever see or hear about a gun when you visited him at his house?”
    Kelly opened her mouth, closed it again.
    â€œMaybe at a family get-together? Did he ever tell your husband about it?”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œOwning a gun,” he said.
    â€œNot that I know of.”
    â€œYou’re aware, aren’t you, that your father-in-law was a pretty big antigun activist? You’ve heard of the John McFadden Fund.”
    The washing machine rumbled.
    â€œI’ve heard,” she said, “of the John McFadden Fund .” She made herself say the name clearly, deliberately. As though it had quotes around it. She met his gaze and saw something there, an uneasiness.
    The detective cleared his throat. He slid back in his chair, which gave Kelly a type of sad satisfaction. Good. Be uneasy.
    â€œSterling Marshall was very close to the man you shot in the head.”
    She nodded at him. “Yep.” He couldn’t shake her. If the washing machine couldn’t shake her, if the memory of that letter couldn’t shake her, then nothing could, including him, especially him—Barry Brûlée or whatever his name was. He was made of cinnamon. She was made of rock.
    â€œWould you say that you got along well with your father-in-law?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œReally? Give me an idea of how close you were. Did you call him Sterling? Mr. Marshall? Dad? ”
    â€œThis is how it’s going to be, huh?”
    â€œI’m asking pretty basic questions.”
    â€œAre you going to talk to my husband? Will you at least show him the suicide note?”
    â€œBellamy Marshall says that you and her father were not on the best of terms. Is she lying?” Kelly looked at him—the gold-spun eyebrows, the faerie green eyes. The pale pink hands, hovering over his mug.
    He said, “Can I ask you something?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDid you ever feel like . . .”
    â€œI said you can’t ask me something.”
    â€œDid you ever feel like Sterling Marshall chose John McFadden over you?”
    She stared at him. “I don’t care if he did.”
    â€œMr. Marshall gave an interview two days ago. In the Times . It was for the fifth anniversary of your release. I’m sure you read it. He said he still misses his old pal John. But he doesn’t blame you, not anymore. You were just a kid after all. Raised by an uncaring, irresponsiblemother. Tragically lost your twin just a few years before, and besides, you were on drugs. A teen addict. Didn’t know right from wrong.”
    Kelly heard a noise outside the kitchen window—a swooping hiss. Turkey vulture. “He never said that about my mother.”
    â€œWhere were you this morning, between the hours of midnight and three A.M .?”
    â€œHere.”
    â€œYou mean, in this house?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œCan anyone verify your whereabouts? Your husband, maybe?”
    She shut her eyes. Behind her lids she saw a fuse box—the same one she’d made up in her mind at seventeen when she’d stood outside the courthouse, surrounded by strangers, her whole future