If he came home, she corrected herself. She wasn’t sure of anything now that the detective was standing in the salon.
Wrapping her long purple sweater tightly around her, she went outside with him. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Not if it makes you more comfortable.”
She lit up and inhaled deeply. It was a nasty habit, one her old friends would’ve frowned upon. But it got her through the day. “What is it?” she asked, bracing for the worst.
“Are you still taking sleeping pills?”
She gave him a dirty look. Thanks to him, the D.A. had made a big deal out of that at the trial, claiming Oliver could’ve done anything while she was unconscious and she never would’ve known. But she didn’t feel he was bullying her. He really wanted to know. “No. For the most part, I can get to sleep on my own now.”
“That’s good. Have you discovered anything since your husband went to prison, maybe in the move, that might indicate Oliver knew Meredith Connelly, Patty Poindexter or Amber Farello?”
“You think I’d tell you if I did?”
“It’s been three years,” he countered. “I’m hoping you’ve had some time to consider the possibilities.”
Jane breathed a little easier. So he had nothing new, just more of the same. Maybe she could handle this. “Determined, aren’t you?”
She realized his friendly expression was calculated to charm her—yet it still worked. With broad shoulders and the kind of muscles you saw in men determined to stay in top physical shape, the detective was rugged, cocky, intense. In her mentally fragile state, he posed a real threat to her defenses. “What was I supposed to find?” she asked.
“An article of clothing. A piece of jewelry. A knife.”
“Why is it so hard for you to believe that my husband isn’t what you think? Skye Kellerman was on drugs. She stabbed Oliver with her scissors, for crying out loud.”
His thick dark lashes created the perfect frame for his green eyes. “Skye wasn’t on drugs.”
“You don’t know that. You just can’t imagine such a beautiful woman being the one at fault—can you?”
If he heard the hint of jealousy in her voice, he ignored it. “I’m talking about trophies. Some ra**sts and murderers like to collect them, treasure them, use them to relive their crimes.”
Rapists and murderers… She scowled at him. “You’re not going to answer my question?”
“Skye’s beauty has nothing to do with my reason for being here.”
“Yes, it does,” she said. “It has everything to do with me being here, too.”
“Did you ever wake up to find your husband gone? Or maybe washing up in the bathroom?”
He was so eager to move on she wondered if she could’ve misread some of the heated looks he and Skye Kellerman had exchanged during the trial. Was it just the emotion of the moment? A common cause and genuine sympathy, however misplaced? Or something deeper? “He was a busy man. He came home late some evenings, got up early most mornings.”
“Were there days when he got up so early you had no idea what time he actually left the house?”
“Of course. But that doesn’t mean anything. A lot of wives could say the same. I generally slept later than he did, whether I’d taken a sleeping pill the night before or not. I didn’t expect him to clock in and out.” She frowned. “But that was in the good old days…”
“Were they all good?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oliver never behaved distantly, strangely? Nothing happened that made you wonder if he was the man you thought he was?”
Jane immediately recalled the weekend she’d avoided talking about—when Oliver had wanted to experiment with Viagra right after it hit the market. A few days later, he’d brought home something he said would charge her up, make her hungry for sex. So she’d agreed to take it. She hadn’t wanted her husband to think she was boring just because she was a few years older. But it’d turned out to be the strangest experience. Oliver claimed they’d made love several times. He had scratches on his body to prove she’d gotten a little out of control. But she couldn’t remember ever touching him, and none of those women had been murdered at that time. It was probably nothing….
“Jane?” the detective prompted, and she realized she’d stopped walking.
“He was perfectly normal,” she replied and started moving again.
Willis stared at the ground as he kept pace with her. “Remaining silent could be dangerous, Jane.”
She was tired of the questions, the constant assault on what she believed.
Or was it only what she wanted to believe? Rubbing her eyes with her free hand, she sighed. “Will you stop?”
Hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his well-worn jeans, he stepped in front of her, blocking her forward progress. The T-shirt beneath his leather jacket stretched across his chest, revealing the contours of his pectoral muscles, which was definitely distracting and made it more difficult to remember that he was her enemy. “Think about what could happen if you’re wrong,” he said.
He was trying to undermine her confidence, frighten her. And it was working. “I’m not taking sleeping pills, so I’ll be more aware.”
“You figure that’ll stop him?”
“You’re worried about nothing,” she insisted, but she wasn’t as positive as she’d once been. That weekend when Oliver had behaved so strangely had always troubled her, but it troubled her even more now. Still, no one had been hurt that weekend. “You searched my house and you found nothing, remember?”
Rubbing the beard growth that was just beginning to shadow his chin, Willis switched tactics. “At trial, you said you met Oliver at a pizza parlor when you were already working as a hairstylist. He was only a junior in high school, but you were attracted to each other right away, went out that night and became exclusive shortly after.”
She laughed bitterly. “And I was worried about the age difference. I never guessed I’d have to deal with anything like what’s happened since.” She stared at the handsome detective through the smoke curling from her cigarette. “You can’t imagine what it’s been like for me, having the father of my child, my husband, convicted of attempted rape.”
Willis seemed genuinely sympathetic. “It’s a wonder you’ve hung on through all of this.”