Her partner, Detective Carson, barely spoke.
He watched.
Everything.
Vicky had finally fallen asleep with her stuffed rabbit tucked beneath her chin.
I left the bedroom door cracked open.
Ruiz placed a recorder on the kitchen table.
“We’re not treating you as a suspect, Michael.”
“That’s exactly what someone says before they treat you as a suspect.”
One corner of her mouth moved.
“Fair.”
Mercer sat beside me.
“He’s answering voluntarily.”
Ruiz nodded.
“We need the timeline again.”
I closed my eyes.
I’d told the story so many times I could see it before she asked.
“I got home at eleven fifty-something.”
“From work?”
“Yeah. Grocery store.”
“What did you notice?”
“The porch light was off.”
“Unusual?”
“Dad always left it on when I worked late.”
“What happened next?”
“I smelled smoke before I opened the door.”
My fingers curled around the edge of the chair.
“The downstairs hallway was already filling up.”
