After a long moment of silence, Detective Lawrence sat back in his chair. “I know this is hard for you. Take your time. Would you like a glass of water?”
“No.” Jaxon coughed again. “I . . . want to finish.” He took a breath, shuddered, and stared at the blank white wall in front of him, although Kate got the feeling he was seeing something else. Or rather . . . someone. “Her hands and feet were bound with blue rope. She was on her stomach, a white collar around her neck. Covered in blood. I ran to her to check if she was still breathing. The collar . . . kept me from accessing her pulse point. I touched her wrists; they were purple . . . but the ropes covered the pulse, so I tried to untie her.” He paused. “I couldn’t. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. I knew I was too late. I took my cell phone from my pocket and called nine-one-one. Then I left her there and went downstairs to wait for the police. That’s it.”
Kate recognized the anguish in his dark eyes, having seen the same look in hers every time she stared in the mirror. He didn’t cry, but every word from his lips was laced with sorrow and regret. She hadn’t cried either all those years ago. Her old therapist had said once she got over the shock, all the emotions she’d suppressed would eventually boil over and pour out of her.
She was still waiting.
“Thank you, Jaxon. I know that was hard and I appreciate you telling your story,” Detective Lawrence said in a soft tone. “Now I need to clarify a few things. When did you leave for Chicago?”
“We need you to clarify a few things for us, Katie.” The burly detective grinned at her, his yellow teeth reminding her of Uncle Tate’s. Both men smelled of chewing tobacco.
“I want to see my mom.” She needed to explain that it wasn’t her fault before the police told their version.
The detective peered over his shoulder at the pretty female cop standing in front of the door, keeping her hostage. The cop shook her head, and he glanced back at Katie. “She’s on her way, but we can’t allow you to see her until you tell us the truth.”
Why wouldn’t they believe her? She clenched her blood-soaked hands. “I told you the truth. I want to go home.”
“Sunday morning.” Jaxon’s deep voice brought Kate back to the present. She subtly brushed her chin against her shoulder to check if her boss had noticed her momentary lapse of attention.
“Where did you stay?” Detective Lawrence asked.
Jaxon rubbed his forehead. “The Waldorf Astoria on Walton.”
Kate’s knee bounced under the table. She clutched her hands on her thighs and pinched the flesh. Although slight, the pain worked to cease the motion.
“Did anyone stay with you?”
A muscle in Jaxon’s jaw jumped. “No.”
Frowning, the detective drummed his thick fingers on the table. “When did you last speak with your wife?”
Pain flashed in Jaxon’s eyes, and he swallowed hard. “Before I went to sleep.”
“What time was that?”
Jaxon thought it over. “Around eight or nine.”
“Can anyone confirm you were in your room?”
Waiting for Jaxon’s answer, Kate’s pulse increased. He required a strong alibi to avoid being a suspect in the murder.
“I’m sure room service can verify I had dinner.”
“And you stayed in your room all night?”
His index finger twitched. “I . . . went out to get ice.”
“What time?”
“After I spoke with my wife.”
“She had a lot of bruising on her body. Any idea of how she got that?”
“I . . . all I saw was the blood. She was covered in it.”
“Here’s a picture to remind you.” Detective Lawrence slapped down an eight-by-eleven photo.
Horrified and slightly nauseous yet unable to glance away, Kate stared at the picture of Alyssa Deveroux covered in thick welts, cuts, bruises, and stab wounds.
Mr. Trenton shot to his feet. “Jaxon, we’re leaving.” He picked up his briefcase and slammed it on the table, yanking her fascinated attention from the photo. “You’ve crossed a line, Detective. He just lost his wife, and he’s still in shock. To show him the crime scene photo is cruel.”
The detective sat still as a rock, quiet determination simmering below the surface. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find this killer even if it means upsetting your client. He’s having trouble remembering some of the details. Details that may help solve this case.”
“Nick, it’s all right,” Jaxon said, his skin so pale she could make out the blue veins underneath. “I’m fine.”
But he wasn’t fine. How could he be when instead of mourning, he had to defend himself to a stranger who cared nothing for Alyssa?