She handed the glass back and he set it on the night stand. “Take your time.”
Annabelle tried to take a deep breath. It was shaky, but she got it in and out. “He said that he found it last night in his attic. He said there was a leak or something. I guess they were cleaning things out, maybe trying to find out where the hole was.” She paused, wracking her brain. “The laptop was in a box that he’d always assumed had a coffee pot in it. He said he’d thought that the company Teresa worked for had collected all of her stuff.”
“What was the company name?”
“I don’t… Medi-something. I can’t remember.”
“No matter. Anything else?”
“No.” Annabelle ran her hands over her face, rubbing the tears into her skin and massaging her jaw. Her head was now throbbing and her teeth were beginning to chatter. She felt Jack pull a warm blanket around her shoulders and hug her to his chest once more. And then she gave up against the tears and just let them fall.
Through her hiccups, she whispered, “Dylan’s already lost one parent.”
“Shhh. Bella-”
“I have to go see him, Jack. I can’t let him be alone right now.”
“They’ve already told him, Bella. He’ll be at the station house.”
“Jack, please.” She closed her eyes and pushed her face into his shirt. He smelled like after shave and musk and a touch of sweat. He smelled like a man. Against her cheek, he felt like a man.
“You should rest,” he said softly, his rich accent and deep voice wrapping around her as surely as the blanket over her shoulders.
“I will, Jack.” Annabelle pushed herself away from him and looked up into his eyes. As always, his gaze pulled her in, so intensely blue that she felt she was drowning in an ocean of deep, dark influence. What kind of power was that? And why was a human being allowed to have so much of it?
“I will,” she repeated. “But not right now.”
Jack watched her for several long moments more and then he sighed, dropping his head. “Very well. I’ll get your things.”
Chapter Five
Forty-five minutes later, Annabelle sat alone in a plain room, at a small rectangular desk with two chairs at either side. She sat in one chair. The other was empty. Along one wall, a two-way mirror reflected her own somewhat ashen face back at her. She felt cold.
The door opened inward to admit a young man and a woman, both dressed in the dark blue of Bloomington’s police department. The woman carried two cups of coffee in her hands. She set one in front of Annabelle and then sat down in the chair opposite her.
“I have powdered creamer and sugar, if you’d like.”
Annabelle smiled at the woman, though she knew it wasn’t a genuine smile. The woman looked to be about in her early thirties, with shoulder-length jet-black hair and slightly Asian features. Her skin was perfect. As were her teeth when she smiled back at Annabelle.
“Black is fine,” she answered, taking the Styrofoam cup and placing it to her lips. Warm steam wafted up over her lips to her nostrils. She inhaled and closed her eyes. As small a thing as it was, it was comforting.
The woman nodded, across from her. “I’m detective Chen. This is detective Robinson.” She motioned to the man who was still standing against the wall by the door. The man nodded respectfully toward Annabelle. But he didn’t smile.
Annabelle took a sip of her coffee and studied him silently. He was almost absurdly tall – maybe six and a half feet – and very thin. His hair was dark brown, neatly cut. His eyes were a very light blue that seemed at odds with the deep tan of his face. He was maybe twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Very young in Annabelle’s book.
“Miss Drake, do you know why you’re here?” Chen’s voice was soft, empathetic. It went a long way toward easing Annabelle’s frayed nerves. She was just beginning to think she should have taken some of the spilled Klonapin from Max’s bottle…
“Not really,” she lied. She knew why she was there. In the interrogation room. Alone. The boys in blue weren’t convinced that Max’s death was a suicide. And she was the one to find his body. She was a suspect and she was there for questioning. She knew that much. But, she wasn’t going to admit it. Why give them information they didn’t ask for?
Chen blinked, obviously taking the time to choose the right words. “You knew Max Anderson very well. Can you tell me if, lately, he seemed different than usual in any way?”
Annabelle was quiet for a long time, pretending to search her memory. She knew the entire conversation with the cops was going to have to be one giant act. The only thing stressing Max out lately had been his dog. And the laptop. Something about that laptop had set him off… But that was information for her and Jack to sort through. For some reason, Annabelle didn’t want the police to know. It was just… personal.
“He was worried about his dog. Sam. He’s really old. I think Max was afraid he was going to die.”
Chen nodded slowly. From where he stood against the wall, Robinson pulled a pad of paper and a number two pencil from his uniform front pocket and began to make notes. Annabelle took another sip of her coffee. The caffeine was the last thing she needed in her already nervous state, but the warmth of the liquid was soothing. She would take what she could get.
“Can you tell me what happened earlier today, before you went to lunch with Miss Reid?”
Annabelle took her time answering, swallowing another sip of coffee as she thought about what she was going to say. Obviously, they had already questioned Cassie. Annabelle wondered what she had said. She would have to be careful not to contradict anything her friend may have relayed. Then again, Cassie didn’t know much. When you didn’t know anything, you couldn’t spill it.
“I got in late,” she started slowly. “Car problems. When I got there, Max gave us some jobs and sort of briefed us on what was going on with them. I asked how Sam was. He said he was hanging in there. Then he went back to his office. Later, I stopped into his office to let him know we would be going to lunch in a while. I asked him if he wanted us to bring him anything back. He said no. I left.” She paused, took a last sip of her coffee, emptying the small white cup, and then finished. “That was it.”
Chen didn’t nod this time. She watched Annabelle closely, not saying anything for a long while. Across the room, Robinson’s pen scratched noisily. Whatever he was writing was lengthy and detailed. In Chen’s silence, it almost seemed as if she were broadcasting mental notes to the other detective.
“What, exactly, happened when you found Mr. Anderson’s body?” Chen asked then, careful to keep her tone soft and respectful. Annabelle realized that Chen was very good at this. It probably wasn’t the first time she’d questioned someone who’d lost a person close to them.
Annabelle raced through the lunch time events in her head, sorting them out as she did so. She placed them into two mental categories: One to tell Jack about and one to share with the police. When she’d finished, she spoke.
“May I have more coffee?” she asked, keeping her voice soft and allowing a bit of the fear she was feeling to filter through to her tone. It helped win Chen to her side. The detective nodded, signaling to Robinson, who left the room. When Chen turned back around to face her suspect, Annabelle had finished preparing her answer.
“When we opened the office door, all of the lights were off,” she said, staring at the table as if she were lost in memory. She didn’t think it would hurt to share this bit of information. People who were suicidal did strange things like that before offing themselves. And the truth was, Annabelle was almost positive that that was exactly the effect Max’s killers were going for. She knew, instinctively, that they’d turned off each of the lamps to add to the illusion of Max’s supposed suicidally depressed behavior. So, she helped them lay it on. “It was quiet. Too quiet.” She swallowed, blinking back tears that weren’t entirely fake.