Dougherty cleared his throat. “Well, thing is, we were hoping you’d also help out with some information. To be clear, there’s no legal requirement for you to do so,” Dougherty said. “But Mon—Chief Bishop—that is—”
The man in the suit gave a professional, detached sort of smile. “Chief Bishop is indulging me,” he said. He stepped forward, putting out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Cunningham. I’m Sunil Sawant.”
“Are you with the county sheriff?” I asked, hazarding a guess.
“No. I’m actually with the FBI. Here from the Seattle field office,” he replied. I froze, staring. He walked over and took the seat next to me, swiveling to face me but leaving a good distance between us. Close but not intimidating. Not intimate. “Monica and I go back a ways, and I asked her to let me come on out here.”
“I thought Liv’s death was ruled a suicide,” I said. “How does that involve the FBI?”
“It’s a matter of personal interest, not really official. Just a casual conversation,” Sawant said. His tone, his body language—everything was friendly and relaxed, but I felt myself tensing. Dougherty stood behind him, hands on his hips. If his mustache was a little bit longer he’d be chewing on it. He looked like he wanted to throw the guy out, but he couldn’t—not if Sawant was Bishop’s guest.
Sawant could ask the questions Bishop couldn’t, not without risking her job. He could push, and she could claim ignorance.
“So…” I trailed off. Let him think I couldn’t think of a single thing that might interest the FBI, as opposed to approximately ten thousand.
“You told Chief Bishop that you were in town to see Olivia. Is that right?” he asked.
“That’s right,” I replied. “She asked me to come visit.”
“And this was prompted by Stahl’s death.”
“More or less,” I said. “All three of us met up. Me, Olivia, and Cass. Cassidy Green.”
“Yes. I know the case quite well,” Sawant said. The corners of his eyes creased in something like a smile. “You three were instrumental in putting him away.”
“That’s what everyone tells me,” I replied. He didn’t strike me as one of my fan club.
“You don’t agree?”
“I don’t really like to think about it,” I said.
“Ms. Cunningham, I saw Liv’s note. Like I said, I’m very familiar with the Stahl case,” Sawant said. “I’ve been fascinated by it since my first criminology course in undergrad. When I joined the Bureau and got access to those files it was like being a kid in a candy store. You know what struck me? The bits and pieces that were missing. Especially around the interviews with you three girls.”
“Missing,” I echoed. “What sorts of things?”
“There are minor inconsistencies and omissions regarding when the identification was made, in Cassidy’s and Olivia’s cases. And in your case, there are some conflicting reports about who was in the room. And who had spoken to you beforehand. Is it possible that someone told you about Stahl before you identified him to police?”
I swallowed. My first instinct was to lie. It was easier to keep a secret than end it. “It’s possible,” I said instead. “But I wouldn’t be able to tell you for sure. I only remember bits and pieces from the hospital, and it’s all jumbled.”
“You were unable to describe any details of the attack, but you identified Stahl immediately.”
“I told you. I don’t remember any of it,” I said. “I would answer you if I could, but I really have no idea what I said.” Over Sawant’s shoulder, Dougherty’s face was pinched.
“And what about the attack? Do you remember that? Do you remember seeing Stahl?” he asked, leaning forward.
“No,” I said. He stared at me, like he hadn’t been expecting that answer and had no idea where to go. “Any memories I have are too conflated with things I’ve learned or seen or been told. If you asked me to testify today, I couldn’t. As for what I said back then—it was a very long time ago, and I’ve worked very hard to forget as much as I could. You probably have a clearer idea of what happened than I do, if you’ve read the files.”
Dougherty looked uncomfortable. Sawant shifted. He glanced down at the pad of paper he’d brought with him, jotted down a note I couldn’t read, and looked up again. “In Olivia’s suicide note, she said that she was tired of lying. What was she lying about?”
I hesitated. This part of the truth didn’t just belong to me. I’d promised Cass. “It could have been a number of things. Or nothing at all,” I said. “Reality and Liv didn’t always get along.” I regretted the words as soon as I’d said them. She deserved better than that from me.
“You’re saying what she wrote in that letter was, what—a hallucination?”
“Technically, that would be a delusion.” I looked him dead in the eye. “I don’t know what Liv was referring to in that letter. I know that she was struggling, and that she often hid the extent of that struggle from us.”
“So you didn’t know she was suicidal.”
“She wasn’t,” I said, sounding more stubborn than sure.
“She killed herself. That’s the definition of suicidal, isn’t it?” Sawant asked. “Unless you don’t think it was a suicide.”
“It’s easy to assume that because Liv was ill, she killed herself,” I said slowly. “It’s the obvious answer. But after last time, we all got really familiar with the warning signs. Liv didn’t feel hopeless. She was engaged. She was making plans. And—” I hesitated. “She promised.”
“She promised,” he repeated, skeptical.
“It was something we did. We would promise each other to still be here in the morning.”
“It wasn’t just her making the promise, then?” Sawant said.
I curled my hands in my lap. “It was something both of us needed. And it’s not a promise she would have broken.”
“She left a note.”
That was the part I couldn’t explain and couldn’t understand. “Maybe it wasn’t a suicide note. Maybe she meant…” I trailed off. I couldn’t think of a way to interpret those words as anything else. “She wouldn’t have done it.”
“I am, in fact, inclined to agree with you,” Sawant said. Relief ran like cold water over my skin. “I think it’s clear that someone murdered Olivia Barnes. And I think it’s because she was done covering up an old lie. A lie about what happened in those woods twenty-two years ago.”
He let that hang. Persephone’s name was lodged in my throat. I’d promised Cass. But we were long past promises.
“What is your relationship with Oscar Green?” Sawant asked, cutting me off before I could speak.
I frowned. That was not the direction I’d expected him to take. “I don’t have one,” I said.
“You were romantically involved, though.”
“Who the fuck told you that?” I asked, anger lancing through the words. Sawant sat back a little like he’d hit on something significant.