“About what?”

“About being delusional. About wearing those rose-tinted glasses.”

“Then help me take them off,” I said, unfazed. “Once and for all. Help me see the truth.”

I don’t know if my words reached her. I would not be dissuaded. I looked at her and maybe she saw that. Maybe that was why she finally caved.

“After the wedding, Natalie and Todd moved to Denmark,” Julie said. “That was their home, but they traveled a lot. Todd worked as a doctor for a charity. I forget the name of it. Something about beginnings maybe.”

“Fresh Start.”

“Yes, that’s it. So they traveled to poorer countries. Todd would do medical procedures on the needy. Natalie would do her artwork and teach. She loved it. They were happy. Or so I thought.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“At the wedding.”

“Wait. You haven’t seen your sister in six years?”

“That’s right. After the wedding, Natalie explained to me that her life with Todd was going to be a glorious journey. She warned me that it might be a long time before I saw her again.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “And you’ve never gone over and visited? She’s never come back?”

“No. Like I said, she warned me. I get postcards from Denmark. That’s it.”

“How about e-mail or talking on the phone?”

“She doesn’t have either. She thought that modern technology was clouding her thinking and harming her work.”

I made a face. “She told you that?”

“Yes.”

“And you bought it? What if there was an emergency?”

Julie shrugged. “This was the life she wanted.”

“Didn’t you find this arrangement odd?”

“Yes. In fact, I made a lot of the arguments you’re making now. But what could I do? She made it clear—this was what she wanted. This was the start of a whole new journey. Who was I to stand in the way?”

I shook my head in disbelief and to clear it. “When was the last time you got a postcard from her?”

“It’s been a while. Months, maybe half a year.”

I sat back. “So in reality, you don’t know where she is, do you?”

“I would say Denmark, but in truth, no, I guess I don’t. I also don’t understand how her husband could have been living with another woman in South Carolina or any of this. I mean, nothing makes sense anymore. I don’t know where she is.”

A sharp knock on the door startled us both. Julie actually reached for my hand as though she needed comfort. There was a second knock and then a voice called out.

“Jacob Fisher? This is the police. The house is surrounded. Come out with your hands in the air.”

Chapter 23

I refused to say a word until my attorney—Benedict—was present.

That took some time. The lead officer identified himself as Jim Mulholland of the New York Police Department. I couldn’t figure out that jurisdiction. Lanford College is in Massachusetts. I had killed Otto along Route 91 still within that state. I had ventured into Vermont and when they picked me up I was in New Jersey. Other than taking public transportation through Manhattan, I could not figure out how the NYPD could possibly be involved in this mess.

Mulholland was a burly man with a thick mustache that brought on visions of Magnum PI. He stressed that I was not under arrest and that I could leave anytime, but boy, they would really, really appreciate my cooperation. He chatted politely, if not inanely, as he drove me to a Midtown precinct. He offered me soda, coffee, sandwiches, whatever I wanted. I was suddenly hungry and accepted. I was about to dig in when I remembered that it was guilty men who ate in custody. I had read that somewhere. The guilty man knows what is going on, so he can sleep and eat. It is the innocent man who is too confused and nervous to do either.

Then again, which was I?

I ate the sandwich and even enjoyed every bite. Every once in a while, Mulholland or his partner, Susan Telesco, a tall blonde with jeans and a turtleneck, would try to engage me in conversation. I would shake them off and remind them that I had invoked my right to counsel. Three hours later, Benedict showed up. The four of us—Mulholland, Telesco, Benedict, and yours truly—sat around a table in an interrogation room that had been done up to not be overly intimidating. Of course it wasn’t as though I had a lot of experience in interrogation rooms, but I always expected them to be somewhat stark. This one was more a soft beige.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Mulholland asked.

Benedict frowned. “Really?”

“What?”

“How did you expect us to answer that exactly? With a confession perhaps? ‘Oh yes, Detective Mulholland, I assume you’ve arrested me because I shot up two liquor stores’? Can we skip amateur hour and just get to the heart of this?”

“Listen,” Mulholland said, adjusting himself in the chair, “we’re on your side.”

“Oh boy.”

“No, I mean it. We just need to clean up some details, and then we all go home better people for what happened.”

“What are you talking about?” Benedict asked.

Mulholland nodded at Telesco. She opened a folder and slid a sheet of paper across the table. When I saw the mug shots—front view, side view—my blood hummed in my veins.

It was Otto.

“Do you know this man?” Telesco asked me.

“Don’t answer.” I wasn’t about to, but Benedict put a hand on my arm just in case. “Who is he?”

“His name is Otto Devereaux.”

The name sent a chill through me. They had shown me their faces. They had used at least Otto’s real name. That could only mean one thing—they never intended for me to leave that van alive.

“Recently, your client stated that he had an altercation with a man matching Otto Devereaux’s description on a highway in Massachusetts. In that statement, your client said that he had been forced to kill Mr. Devereaux in self-defense.”

“My client retracted that statement. He was disoriented and under the influence of alcohol.”

“You don’t understand,” Mulholland said. “We aren’t here to bust his chops. If we could, we’d give him a medal.” He spread his hands. “We are all on the same side here.”

“Oh?”

“Otto Devereaux was a career scumbag of almost biblical proportions. We could show his full oeuvre, but it would take too long. Let’s just lead with some of the highlights. Murder, assault, extortion. His nickname was Home Depot because he liked using tools on his victims. He enforced for the legendary Ache brothers until someone decided that he was too violent for them. Then he worked on his own or for whatever desperate bad guy needed a true sicko.” He smiled at me. “Look, Jake, I don’t know how you got the drop on this guy, but what you did was a blessing for society.”