A Bookmarked Death by Judi Culbertson Page A

impatient for me to get to the point. He was still Colin, still my husband of twenty-five years, the man who wooed a nineteen-year-old away from her education and into his life. For all his faults—and I could enumerate them easily if anyone was interested—I knew he was not capable of setting a fatal fire.
    “You’re at the condo?”
    “I’ve been home all day. I have an important article due at the end of the week. You didn’t answer my question. Are you stuck somewhere?”
    “No, the police are here. They have questions about Ethan and Sheila, how they died. They went to the university but you weren’t there.”
    “Ethan and Sheila? Did you tell them what they did to us?”
    “It’s what they think we did to them. They’re here at the house collecting evidence. Rubber boots and things.”
    Carew’s head jerked up and she reached for the phone, as if to take it from a child who was making prank calls.
    “I gave them your address so they can talk to you.”
    “If they have to.”
    I handed the phone back without saying good-bye.
    The detective was looking at me as if a bobcat she had been assured was a house pet had suddenly bared its teeth at her.
    I was beyond caring. “How can you think he’d be stupid enough to commit a crime wearing those boots, then put them back where they could be found?”
    She cocked her head. “I’m sure he’ll have time to think of a reason.”

 
    Chapter Eight
    I STOOD BY the window, arms wrapped around myself, and watched the dark blue car pull away from the curb. I was so terrified I could hear myself breathing. I had been in frightening situations before, fearful for my children, being attacked physically. But it didn’t compare with Colin or me been suspected of murder. Mistakes could be made; I could not stop my frightened mind from racing ahead to arrest, a biased trial, incarceration, or worse.
    When there was nothing more to see I moved toward the wing chair dizzily, as if I were seeing the couch, the fireplace, the photographs through wavy glass. Was this what a heart attack felt like? I sank into the chair and made myself breathe slowly. But now I couldn’t stop playing what had happened over and over in my mind, excoriating myself for not handling it differently. I had thrown our legal rights to the wind.
    If I called Colin right now, he would have time to leave the condo. I could meet him and we could go anywhere—anywhere away from here. I imagined us frantically removing money from roadside ATMs and driving straight through to Mexico. We could sort out everything—my books, his job—later on. The crucial thing was to get away before we were caught and chewed up in the dangerous gears of Justice.
    I closed my eyes and let the scenario unspool. Thank God the children were grown. Or almost grown. We would make it right for them, of course we would, but right now we had to save ourselves. Yet I didn’t reach for my phone. Was it all my fault? What if the fire were Colin’s way of handling the situation to keep me from going to the media in desperation? Colin navigated through life with the ease of someone who presumed himself to be on the side of the angels, someone who met challenges with a raised hand and sweet reason. But perhaps he had a buried ruthlessness that, if aroused, was capable of anything.
    What if he had gone to the house in Southampton Saturday night to confront Ethan? They had argued and Colin had gotten no satisfaction. I thought of Ethan’s superciliousness, remembered how his cold eyes had discounted me all the way back in Stratford. “Bimbo” was hardly the word you would use to describe your best friend’s heavily pregnant wife, but it was what I had read in Ethan’s face.
    Remembering him, I could imagine him treating Colin scornfully in Southampton, perhaps even laughing at him. Suppose Colin had stormed out in frustration—then waited until Ethan and Sheila had gone to bed and torched the house? Could I imagine him spewing