aged father of Flo and Irena, twins who were also the team’s best defenders. Vern whistled using two fingers, a skill Tom lacked (to his own continued frustration), and got the girls moving again.
“Tom, we need to talk,” Murphy said, without extending his hand.
“What’s going on?” Tom asked. A tightness built in his chest. He read faces the way psychics purportedly could read minds.
Murphy lowered his mirrored shades until they rested on the bridge of his nose, and looked around until certain that he and Tom were out of earshot.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” he began, “so I’m just going to come out and say it.”
Tom swallowed hard as he nodded. His stomach was in knots.
“Kelly’s dead,” Murphy said. “And we have reason to believe that her death wasn’t entirely accidental.”
The blue sky above Tom’s head began to spin in quickening cycles. He felt his knees go slack, and his stomach sank. Tom looked behind him at Jill as she made a finely executed slide tackle. The pain he knew she’d soon be experiencing almost kept him from breathing.
Murphy took Tom by the arm and walked him over to the police cruiser.
“When? How?” Tom heard his own words as though they came from a great distance away. He kept himself upright by resting both his hands on the hood of Murphy’s cruiser and battled back a jet of bile.
“A jogger found her in the ravine behind her house,” Murphy said. “At first it looked like she fell and hit her head on a rock. But we found signs of struggle back in the house, and the ME noticed a bruise on her face that he believes was the result of blunt force trauma by a fist, not a rock. We think she may have walked in on a robbery.”
“My… God… Jill.”
“Tom, I’ve got a crisis counselor on her way over here right now,” Murphy said. “We called Cathleen Wells, too. It’s our understanding that Jill is best friends with Cathleen’s daughter, Lindsey.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s right. Good,” Tom said, his voice nothing but a distant echo in his ears.
“Is there anybody else you want me to call? Family? Neighbors? Clergy?”
Tom shook his head. “No. Not right now.”
“I’m going to need someone to go the medical examiner’s office to make the official identification of the body. Do you think Jill will want to go?”
Tom shook his head again. “No. No, I can’t imagine she’ll be able to handle that right now. But I’ll ask her. Regardless, I’ll go after I get Jill settled.”
“You sure you want to break the news to Jill yourself? We can help there, too, if you need.”
Tom’s body had gone numb. He turned again and watched as Jill made a rocket of a shot on goal. His thoughts kept spinning like the ball she had kicked, but they were all focused on her.
Tom bit at his bottom lip. He said, “No, I’ll tell her. She should hear it from her father.”
“Okay. And, Tom…” Murphy’s words brought Tom back into focus. “I’m going to want to speak with you down at the station,” he said.
“What about?” Tom asked. He hoped his expression didn’t betray his sudden concern. Had they found something inside Kelly’s house? he wondered.
He studied Murphy and thought he picked up on something. Perhaps it was the way Murphy had shifted his eyes. Murphy’s unease heightened Tom’s concern.
“I need to start compiling some background information,” Murphy said. “We’re going to try and re-create as much of Kelly’s past few days as possible. Nothing to be concerned about.”
But that didn’t completely assuage Tom’s worry. As a Navy SEAL, Tom had studied kinesics—the interpretation of body language, facial expressions and gestures. The skill was often used in the theater to ferret out friend from foe. With his folded arms, furrowed brow, and tightly pressed lips, Murphy conveyed that this was more than just a formality without his having to say it.
“You want to speak with me about Kelly’s murder?” Tom asked.
“Her death hasn’t been ruled a homicide—yet. It’s really nothing. Routine type questions,” Murphy said. “But just so you’re not blindsided, I am going to want to know where you’ve been for the last twenty-four hours.”
Tom did a double take. “Are you saying you want my alibi?” he asked, with evident irritation.
“I’m just saying that we need to talk.”
Tom turned away.
He began his slow walk back to the practice field. Jill saw him coming and must have sensed that something was wrong, because her arms fell limply to her sides. Tom’s slow walk broke into a trot, then into a run. When he got to her, Tom put his arm around Jill and led her away from her teammates. He could feel her tiny body begin to shake.
“Jill, honey,” Tom said, fighting to temper the panic swelling inside him. “I’m afraid I’ve just been given some very horrible news. Baby, I need you to brace yourself.”
“What’s wrong?” Jill asked, her dark, doelike eyes wide and fear filled. “What’s going on?”
Tom broke from his daughter’s gaze, readying himself. He caught a glimpse of Murphy eyeing him in the distance. Tom couldn’t see Murphy’s face clearly enough to read his expression, but the relaxed way Murphy sat on his police car, hands resting behind him on the hood, wasn’t befitting a man hunting a killer.
He looked more like a guy who’d already found his prime suspect.
Chapter 4
Tom sat in the center of a neatly ordered row of black plastic chairs tucked inside the lobby of Shilo’s single-story police station. He gazed absently through the Plexiglas window on the opposite wall at the dispatcher fielding a call. His body and mind both felt numb. He was here only to get this meeting over with, so that he could return his full attention to where it belonged—to Jill and her needs. The road she had to travel was going to be a difficult one, but Tom intended to be by her side every step of the way.
A loud buzzer sounded to Tom’s right, drawing his attention. He saw Brendan Murphy, dressed in a jacket and tie, emerge from behind a large metal door.
“Thanks for coming down,” Murphy said, his tone congenial enough. “Our interview room is this way.”
Tom followed Murphy down a well-lit corridor with blue painted walls. Murphy passed one door marked BOOKING ROOM, and came to a stop in front of another closed door, this one labeled MEETING ROOM in stenciled black lettering. Murphy opened that door and went in.
Inside, Tom found a heavily scuffed table with a tape recorder and microphone. The table basically divided the closet-sized room in half. The concrete walls were bare, except for one that had a two-way glass window about the size of a fifty-gallon fish tank.
Tom took a seat on the red plastic chair facing the door. He was already thinking about leaving. Murphy sat opposite Tom and rested his interlocked fingers on the table. Tom disliked the coldness in Murphy’s eyes.
“So,” Murphy said as he pressed RECORD on the tape machine, “I’m sure you’ve heard of your Miranda rights.”
“I have,” said Tom.
“Well, I’m going to read those to you now,” Murphy said. “It’s the law, and this way we can keep the interview on file.”
Tom looked stunned, but he had known this was coming. “You make it sound like you’re arresting me.”
Murphy laughed. “No. Just need to get the formality out of the way. But if you do become a suspect at a point in time, I can use this as evidence.”
“That’s very reassuring,” Tom said.
“So, you know you have the right to remain silent and that anything you say can be used against you in a
