“Enough,” he snapped. “She’s unstable.”
The detective finally opened his notebook.
“Mr. Mercer,” he said, “I’m going to ask you to step outside.”
“No.”
The word came out sharp and ugly.
The uniformed officers moved closer.
Grant looked from one face to another, measuring them the way he measured furniture, servants, rivals. Then, slowly, he raised both hands higher and gave a charming little shrug.
“Of course,” he said. “Whatever helps my wife.”
He turned toward me before leaving.
His mouth curved into a smile only I could understand.
You’ll regret this.
For the first time, I smiled back.
No, Grant.
You will.
The detective was named Mara Voss. She had silver threaded through her dark hair and a calmness that did not feel cold, only practiced. She waited until Grant had been taken down the hall before she spoke again.
“Mrs. Mercer, are you safe to talk?”
