Christine was leaning against the desk, glaring. Her breathing sounded normal, but Abbie got the impression she was fighting to keep it that way. Focusing on it while trying to work Abbie out.
“‘In my experience,’” the woman quoted. “Strange phrasing.”
“Not really.”
“A little. You been around many killers?”
“Countless,” said Abbie. “But we're talking about accidental murderers. Been around less of them, but enough to form an opinion. Enough to know they don’t always act in their best interests. For example, even if you accepted that the accidental killer fled immediately post-murder, only later considering evidence, you might not believe said killer, upon returning to the scene, would hang around. They’d be expecting the body, you might say. They could prepare for it. Thus, as soon as they arrived, they could get to business and flee. You might say the fact I caught you on your knees over the guy, obviously shocked, panicking, proves that you’re innocent.”
"The thought had crossed my mind."
"Except that's not how accidental killers behave. They might think they're prepared to see their victim again, but they rarely are. The visual brings home what they've done like a hammer. It's common for their legs to give out, for them to go to ground as waves of guilt overcome them. Many murderers get caught that way."
Christine stared at Abbie. She played with her hands. She was trying to be annoyed but was mostly confused while struggling to keep the panic at bay.
"Who the hell are you?" she said.
"Asked and answered."
"You follow me here and start throwing around accusations—"
"I'm not throwing anything," Abbie cut in. "I'm hypothesising. I don't know enough to draw any conclusions, as it stands. If I had to follow my gut, I'd say you didn't do it. Doesn't track for me, but that doesn't mean I'd rule you out as a suspect. No chance."
"You a cop?"
Abbie snorted.
"Then maybe you're the killer."
"Cops can be killers."
"And that could be a distraction," said Christine. "All this could be distraction. There you stand, asking me about my favourite colour—“
“—Which you’ve not answered, by the way.“
“Accusing me of murder and telling me cops can be killers and all to throw me off the scent. I reckon you knew Davesh was dead when you walked in. Did you kill him? Is that what this is? I think you killed him."
A sound from outside. Close by. Distinctive. Turning from Christine, Abbie moved towards the window. As she walked, she spoke.
"You're losing control. Need to focus on keeping your breathing nice and even. You can't afford to freeze up. Not now."
"There you go again, trying to distract me. Just like the killer would."
There were curtains over the window on the opposite side of the room to the desk. Flicking them aside, Abbie could see the rings of cars through which she had earlier walked, leading to the gate.
"If you truly think I'm the killer," said Abbie, not looking away from the window, "you're either wrong or in serious danger."
Still, Abbie didn't look back, but she could almost hear Christine's body tense.
"You threatening me?"
Abbie tutted. "Be better. Think about what I said."
The sound grew louder. Abbie saw headlights turn onto the street from which she had first spied Christine.
Christine who was thinking. She didn't know whether she wanted to play the game, but nor did she want to come across as stupid.
"If you killed Davesh, you left and watched the place," she said at last. "You saw me come in. But there would be no reason to follow me. Your best bet would be to call the police and report a break in, try put me in the frame for your crime. If you were the killer, and you followed me, that would indicate…" Christine stopped. She couldn't say it.
"That I deemed you a problem but thought it was a problem I could handle. Probably by slitting your throat. Murderers aren't a particularly imaginative bunch. They tend to execute people in the same way again and again. Very dull."
Abbie watched the car stop and moved her hand from the curtain, letting it drape the window once more. She turned to Christine.
"Time to decide if you think I'm the killer," said Abbie.
"What, why?" said Christine.
There was a clink of metal from outside, followed by the scrape of a gate on gravel. Then the engine started again.
"That's the sound of new arrivals," said Abbie. "This intimate gathering's about to become a party, so I say again, do you think I'm the killer?
"Because I think you're about to have to pick a side."
Three
The car pulled into the lot. Parked between the fifth and sixth ring of sale vehicles. Stopped.
Walking away from the window, Abbie came to Christine, grabbed her arm.
“Why were you here?”
“I’m not talking to you.”
Doors opened, feet crunched into the gravel, doors slammed.
“We’ve no time for this. I told you why I’m here: a little girl, in danger. Worthy. She’s what matters. But I've been doing this a long time; I’ve learned to trust my instincts, and my instincts say trust you. But you've got to give me something. Did you kill this man?”
Footsteps; growing louder as the newcomers closed on the dealership.
Christine was frozen in indecision. Didn’t know what to do, what to say. Needed
