glasses in the dishwasher. Old habits are hard to break. Then I went out the back door and started checking under the house.”
“About how long had you been at the house at that point?”
I shrugged. “I don’t really know. Maybe eight or ten minutes, I’d imagine. Certainly not much more than that. I didn’t go anywhere but the kitchen, and I didn’t do anything but get a drink and put the glasses in the dishwasher. It might even have been a couple minutes less than that.”
My neck and shoulders tensed, the muscles tightening with stress as the sheriff’s questions drew me nearer to the moment I found Gregory.
“Take it easy,” the sheriff said as though he could read my mind. “I know this is upsetting, but we’ll take it slow. Okay?”
I nodded. Sheriff Mitchell and I weren’t always best pals, but it seemed clear he was trying to be considerate and I appreciated the effort.
“Okay. You went out the back door just a few minutes after you arrived at the house. You were getting ready to go under the house. How long before you actually went into the crawl space?”
“Only a minute or two. I checked my flashlight and kind of peered under there, and then I put on my mask and went in.”
“You put on a mask?”
“Yeah. It was musty smelling. I thought there might be mold. That’s pretty normal.”
The sheriff didn’t ask any more questions, so I swallowed hard and went on. I told him everything I could remember until I got up to the hard part. I was telling the sheriff about how I’d switched my flashlight back on after noticing the pile of boxes and something else.
I stopped. Several years of martial-arts training had helped me gain some control of my temper, to find the calm inside me. I used the same techniques to help control the panic that threatened to overtake me now.
I closed my eyes for a minute and focused on breathing deep and slow, letting the tension go. It helped a little.
“That ‘something else’ was Gregory Whitlock?”
“Yes. I got close enough to see what it was and I reached out with my flashlight and kind of tapped it against his foot. He didn’t move.
“I got out of there as fast as I could and called 9-1-1. You know the rest.”
chapter 9
“How about a break?”
Without waiting for an answer, Sheriff Mitchell stood up. He wiggled his shoulders a little as though trying to release some tension of his own.
At that moment his suggestion made Sheriff Mitchell my best friend. I stood up myself and stretched my arms out, pulling the knots out of my back and shoulders.
The sheriff opened the door to the corridor and spoke to someone outside. I couldn’t make out his words, but a minute later a deputy appeared at the door with two cups of coffee.
The sheriff handed one cup to me and carried his around the desk. He resumed his seat, and looked pointedly at the other chair.
I took the hint.
“Just a few more questions,” the sheriff tried to reassure me. I hoped he meant it. I was way past ready to be out of there and thinking about anything but the death—the murder—of Gregory Whitlock.
I took a sip of the coffee. It had been sitting too long on the heat, the bitterness of cheap beans burned into the brew.
“You mentioned your mother and Mr. Whitlock’s wedding plans a few minutes ago. How was that going?”
Without thinking I rolled my eyes, and the sheriff chuckled.
I realized what I’d done an instant too late. “No, nothing wrong. Just Mom wanting things a certain way. And there was so much to do! She was obsessing over every detail.
“But she just wanted everything to be done right, that’s all.”
“And you didn’t agree?”
“Let’s just say Mom and I have different standards about some things.”
The sheriff switched tracks. “And how did Mr. Whitlock feel about the wedding preparations? You say you talked with the two of them about the plans. Did he express an opinion?”
I shook my head. “He pretty much stayed out of it. Mom
“About how long had you been at the house at that point?”
I shrugged. “I don’t really know. Maybe eight or ten minutes, I’d imagine. Certainly not much more than that. I didn’t go anywhere but the kitchen, and I didn’t do anything but get a drink and put the glasses in the dishwasher. It might even have been a couple minutes less than that.”
My neck and shoulders tensed, the muscles tightening with stress as the sheriff’s questions drew me nearer to the moment I found Gregory.
“Take it easy,” the sheriff said as though he could read my mind. “I know this is upsetting, but we’ll take it slow. Okay?”
I nodded. Sheriff Mitchell and I weren’t always best pals, but it seemed clear he was trying to be considerate and I appreciated the effort.
“Okay. You went out the back door just a few minutes after you arrived at the house. You were getting ready to go under the house. How long before you actually went into the crawl space?”
“Only a minute or two. I checked my flashlight and kind of peered under there, and then I put on my mask and went in.”
“You put on a mask?”
“Yeah. It was musty smelling. I thought there might be mold. That’s pretty normal.”
The sheriff didn’t ask any more questions, so I swallowed hard and went on. I told him everything I could remember until I got up to the hard part. I was telling the sheriff about how I’d switched my flashlight back on after noticing the pile of boxes and something else.
I stopped. Several years of martial-arts training had helped me gain some control of my temper, to find the calm inside me. I used the same techniques to help control the panic that threatened to overtake me now.
I closed my eyes for a minute and focused on breathing deep and slow, letting the tension go. It helped a little.
“That ‘something else’ was Gregory Whitlock?”
“Yes. I got close enough to see what it was and I reached out with my flashlight and kind of tapped it against his foot. He didn’t move.
“I got out of there as fast as I could and called 9-1-1. You know the rest.”
chapter 9
“How about a break?”
Without waiting for an answer, Sheriff Mitchell stood up. He wiggled his shoulders a little as though trying to release some tension of his own.
At that moment his suggestion made Sheriff Mitchell my best friend. I stood up myself and stretched my arms out, pulling the knots out of my back and shoulders.
The sheriff opened the door to the corridor and spoke to someone outside. I couldn’t make out his words, but a minute later a deputy appeared at the door with two cups of coffee.
The sheriff handed one cup to me and carried his around the desk. He resumed his seat, and looked pointedly at the other chair.
I took the hint.
“Just a few more questions,” the sheriff tried to reassure me. I hoped he meant it. I was way past ready to be out of there and thinking about anything but the death—the murder—of Gregory Whitlock.
I took a sip of the coffee. It had been sitting too long on the heat, the bitterness of cheap beans burned into the brew.
“You mentioned your mother and Mr. Whitlock’s wedding plans a few minutes ago. How was that going?”
Without thinking I rolled my eyes, and the sheriff chuckled.
I realized what I’d done an instant too late. “No, nothing wrong. Just Mom wanting things a certain way. And there was so much to do! She was obsessing over every detail.
“But she just wanted everything to be done right, that’s all.”
“And you didn’t agree?”
“Let’s just say Mom and I have different standards about some things.”
The sheriff switched tracks. “And how did Mr. Whitlock feel about the wedding preparations? You say you talked with the two of them about the plans. Did he express an opinion?”
I shook my head. “He pretty much stayed out of it. Mom
Similar Books
