Crash & Burn by Lisa Gardner

even Boston, lots of production work around here. And I don’t need to be on site. I have mycontacts from the old days. Now the set guys come to me with what they need. I design it, build it, ship it. Done.”
    â€œAnd Nicky, too?” Wyatt repeated.
    â€œYeah. Like I said.”
    â€œWhere was your wife last night, Mr. Frank?”
    Thomas shifted uncomfortably, no longer meeting their gazes. “I thought at home,” he said, voice already rough. “Last I saw, she was asleep on the sofa.”
    Kevin and Wyatt exchanged a glance. Time to start unspooling the rope, Wyatt thought.
    â€œWhat time was that?” Wyatt asked, voice still perfectly polite.
    â€œI don’t know. Eight, nine P.M. ”
    Wyatt regarded the man closely. “Little early to be down for the night,” he commented, as Kevin joined the fray:
    â€œLast you saw—”
    Thomas slammed down his coffee cup. “It’s not her fault!”
    Neither detective said a word.
    â€œI mean, we were fine. Everything was fine. Happy couple, happy life. Except then, six months ago, Nicky fell down the stairs. Was doing laundry, I don’t know. I found her passed out cold on the basement floor. Took her to the emergency room, where she was diagnosed with a mild concussion. No big deal, you think. Rest and recuperate. Except she had difficulty sleeping after that. And would lash out, no good reason. Headaches, fatigue, difficulty focusing. I did a little reading. Symptoms were consistent with someone recovering from a concussion. Told myself—and her—to be patient. Just a little more time. Except then just a few months later, I found Nicky sprawled on the front porch. She’d been walking out the door, she thought. Except she must’ve tripped or something. Bad news, she hit her head again. Two concussions, three months.”
    The husband stared at them. Wyatt and Kevin returned his look,expressions stonier this time, allowing him to see their skepticism, feel the heat.
    â€œPost-concussive syndrome,” the man bit out. “My wife isn’t a drunk. At least she didn’t used to be. She’s not violent either. At least she didn’t used to be.” He turned his head slightly, revealing the shadow of a bruise along the man’s jaw. “But the falls, multiple brain traumas . . . The neurologist tells me each subsequent injury has an exponential effect. I don’t really understand it. I just know my wife . . . She’s not herself these days.”
    â€œSo you left her unattended yesterday evening,” Wyatt murmured.
    â€œI went to my work shed! We have a separate building, on the rear of our property, that houses all my tools, equipment. That’s where I work, and for the love of God . . . I’ve been tending Nicky, most days, all days. Now I’m behind. Because that’s what happens when you have a sick spouse. You get behind on work while having even more bills to pay. She falls asleep, I bolt out the door. I’m not saying it’s a good thing. I’m saying it’s what I have to do to hold things together. Docs want her in a stable environment on a normal routine. Losing our house right now because I can’t pay the mortgage doesn’t accomplish either of those things.”
    â€œWhere’d she get the scotch?” Kevin drawled.
    Thomas Frank flushed. He picked his coffee cup back up, took a sip. “I don’t know.”
    â€œCar keys?” Wyatt piled on.
    â€œIn the basket by the front door. It’s not like she’d been banned from driving; the docs just don’t recommend it.”
    â€œProbably don’t recommend her drinking either.” Kevin again.
    Thin lips. “No. They don’t.”
    â€œBut she does.” Wyatt, jerking the man’s attention back to him. Because now was the time; he could feel it. Thomas Frank was agitated and angry. Fractured and