More cops? she wondered. Insurance people?
Why now? What more did they want from her? What more could she say?
“Ms. Albright?” The male suit, graying hair, compact body, held up a badge. As did the woman, dark skin, hair in short, dark coils, deep brown eyes oddly cool.
“FBI Special Agents Morrison and Beck. Could we speak with you?”
As the headache pounded, pounded, Morgan stared at the identification. “FBI? I don’t understand.”
“We know you’ve had a difficult day, but if we could come in and explain.”
“It’s about Nina?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She felt that tiny inch toward closure slide away again.
“All right.” She led the way. “I’ve talked to the police, and gave a statement. I honestly don’t know anything else.”
She unlocked the door, went inside.
“I can make coffee,” she offered, only because she thought she should.
The woman—Beck—nodded slightly. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“No, it’s okay. Sit down. It’ll only take a minute.”
Instead of sitting in the living room, Morrison followed her, stood just inside the kitchen. “You have a nice house.”
“Thank you.” She saw his gaze shift to the back door as she started the coffee. “Bill, my boss, fixed the door. The police—the detectives that came after the other police that day, and the crime scene people—they said it was okay to fix the broken glass and put in the dead bolt.”
“Of course.”
“It just had the thumb lock before. He broke the glass, and just reached in and flipped it open.”
“He?”
“He, she, they, I don’t know.”
“She was home unexpectedly from work?”
Again, she thought. She had to say it all again.
“They sent her home sick. She had a cold, and it got worse at work. The coworker who drove her home because her car was in the shop said they stopped so she could buy some DayQuil. She must’ve been in bed because the bottle was on the nightstand, and a box of tissues on the bed.”
She kept her hands busy, got out mugs, creamer, sugar, spoons, a tray.
She’d say it all again, she thought, then they’d go away so she could sleep.
“The detectives said it looked like he went to my office, either to start there or to hide there if he heard her. The house should’ve been empty, but it wasn’t. He was in there, and she walked in or started to, and he killed her.
“How many times do I have to say it?”
“Why don’t I take that tray in for you?”
She let him because she wanted to sit down. She wanted to sit and get this all over with.
Beck picked it up as soon as they walked in.
“You kept your car fob in the house. In plain view?”
“Yes, Jesus.” The reasonable part of her knew they did a job, but the rest of her just didn’t care.
“I said all this, too. I kept it in that bowl by the door. Come in, put it in the bowl, always know where it is. He thought the house would be empty—that’s what the detectives think.”
Struggling, she pressed her fingers to her eyes.
Just get it over with.
“He broke in, killed Nina because she was here. He took her jewelry and mine—not worth much—I had a hundred in cash rolled in a sock, he got that and whatever cash she had in her drawer. It wouldn’t have been much. He took her MacBook and her phone. No point in taking my laptop, since it broke when he broke her. It was five years old anyway, and not worth much. Then he took the fob out of the bowl and drove away in my car.
“I don’t know anything else.”
Beck opened a slim briefcase, took out a photo. “Do you recognize this man?”
His hair was longer and sort of carelessly, stylishly windblown, but otherwise …
The headache rolled nausea into her belly.
“Luke Hudson.”
“How do you know him?”
“He came into the bar where I work nights, about three weeks ago. The Next Round. He came into the bar. I tend bar. He wanted a local draft, struck up a conversation. He said he was in the area for a few months. IT work, smart homes and offices.”
Because her hands shook, she slid them under her thighs. “But that’s not true, is it? Or you wouldn’t be here. Did he do this? I don’t understand how that could be. Did he do this?”
“Was he ever in here?” Morrison, ignoring the question, pushed on. “In your house?”