vomit was nearly overwhelming. Dear God.
“Dr. Frasier, can you start from the beginning and tell me what happened?”
Her mind still steeped in disbelief, she recounted all that had happened since she woke up. Twice he stopped her and urged her to take her time. The clearer the details, the better. She tried her very best to speak slowly and not leave anything out.
More people came into her home. The latest two were fully clad in disposable garb—gloves, white coveralls, matching hair covers, masks and booties. Forensic techs, she realized. They were here to collect evidence of the crime that had taken place in her home.
The shooting. The murder.
How in the world had William been shot right next to her without her hearing it? Wouldn’t there have been a struggle?
No sooner had she finished her story to the officer than another pair of official-looking men walked in. These two wore business suits.
“Dr. Frasier,” Tolliver said as he stood, “this is Detective Nader and his partner, Detective Watts. They’ll be taking over from here.”
The man named Nader took the chair that Tolliver vacated. Watts followed the officer up the stairs.
Marissa’s throat felt dry. She wished for water or coffee. Anything.
“Let’s start at the top, Dr. Frasier. I want to know everything you remember from the time you got home last night.”
Marissa started at the beginning once more and told the detective the same story she’d told the officer. Nader asked her about her relationship with William. She flinched. Of course he would want to know those details. Most likely the officer simply hadn’t gotten that far in his interrogation.
Because this was an interrogation. Not merely an interview. A man was dead.
As briefly as possible, Marissa explained her relationship with William, culminating with the recent volatile history—his words to her last night outside the ER.
Nader did a lot of scribbling.
Marissa wrung her hands together, wished again that she had a jacket or sweater and a bottle of water or a cup of coffee.
A female officer approached Nader and whispered something in his ear. The two of them glanced at Marissa.
“Give me a minute,” Nader said.
The officer stepped back to the front door and waited there.
“You know a fellow named Lacon Traynor? Says he’s part of your legal and security team from the Colby Agency.”
Relief rushed through Marissa. “Yes.” Though she didn’t know the name Lacon Traynor, she absolutely knew the Colby Agency. Eva likely knew the man.
“Does the Colby Agency represent you?”
Marissa wasn’t sure how to answer that question. They did, in a manner of speaking, she supposed. Though she hadn’t technically met with Victoria yet and hadn’t signed any documents.
But William was dead—in her bed.
She needed help.
“Yes.” She hated that her voice quivered. “Yes, the Colby Agency and I are working together. Because...” She moistened her lips. “Because William’s behavior was becoming increasingly erratic and threatening.”
Nader sent a nod toward the waiting officer, who disappeared out the door.
“Nader!”
The shout came from the landing at the top of the stairs. Marissa’s gaze moved to the man who had called out. It was the other detective, Watts.
“Yeah?” Nader glanced over his shoulder.
“Bring the doc up here for a minute, will you?”
Nader stood. “Let’s have a look at your bedroom.”
Marissa followed the detective to the staircase. They waited at the bottom until the two paramedics had descended.
“Coroner’s on his way,” one of the paramedics said to Nader.
The detective nodded and the paramedics left. Marissa watched as they, too, disappeared out her front door. Suddenly she wanted to do exactly that. She didn’t want to be here any longer. She didn’t want to go back upstairs. There was blood in her bed.
Bile churned in her belly.
William was dead.
Nader gestured for her to go ahead of him. Her entire body had started to shake by the time they reached her bedroom door. She hugged herself tight. It wasn’t until she walked into the room this time that she smelled the stench of death. That unmistakable odor of rapidly decomposing cells, mixed with the metallic fetor of blood. The shades had been raised, filling the room with morning light. William remained on the bed. He would be there, she reminded herself, until the coroner arrived to take possession of the body.
The body. Dear God, why? Why would he do this? Yet the gunshot had been to the back of his head. He had not done this. She had to keep her thoughts straight. Her mind whirled madly. He had been murdered. She had to remember that. Someone had come into her home...
Her stomach clenched, and she suffered through another round of nausea. She had assumed that William had somehow gotten her key. But William couldn’t have done this...not alone anyway.
His killer had stood over her bed...had done these awful things while she slept.
“At any time after you awakened and found your husband—”
“Ex-husband,” she corrected Nader, her voice weak, practically a whisper.
He nodded. “After you discovered your dead ex-husband lying next to you, did you at any time walk to that side of the bed?”
Marissa had to think about the question for a moment, then she shook her head. “No. I scooted across the bed and pushed him onto his back.” She shrugged. “All I could think was that he needed CPR, but then I realized it was too late. I suppose I was in shock.” Her hand went to her throat. “I don’t see how this could have happened.” She looked around the room. “Here. With me asleep right next to him.”
Watts held up a clear bag with a handgun inside it. “Is this .22 caliber automatic yours, Dr. Frasier?”
Marissa peered at the bag. “It looks like mine.” She gestured to her night table. “May I?”
Watts and Nader nodded. One of them muttered, “Sure.”
She moved to the table and pulled open the top drawer. A fingernail file, a brush, the book she’d started reading months ago and never gotten back to. The nail polish she never seemed to have time to use, and the lockbox. She removed it from the drawer and opened it. No weapon.
Where was her gun?
“It’s not here.” She turned back to the detective holding the weapon. “Is there a way to determine if that one is actually mine?”
She instinctively understood that the weapon in the bag, the one that was probably hers, had been used to kill William.
“Our forensic experts will make that determination,” Watts assured her.
“We’d like to swab your hands,” Nader said.
She nodded. “Of course.” She had nothing to hide. Apparently she had slept through William’s murder. How was that possible? Wouldn’t she have heard the weapon fire? It might be small, but it was loud nonetheless. She’d fired it numerous times when she took that gun safety course. The sound would certainly have awakened her. The entire scene was sheer madness. None of this made sense.
Horror churned inside her.
Watts motioned for one of the techs to come do the honors. Marissa held her hands in front of her—they shook. The forensic tech carefully