Rupe tried to stay calm as he waited for Jayne to arrive. This was utterly ridiculous. How could they think he was capable of murder? His leg jiggled up and down. Come on, Jayne. Where was she? It must have been an hour since he’d called, and she didn’t live too far away. Surely, she should have arrived by now.

What if something’s wrong? Oh God, what if Kyle had turned up again, and she was having to deal with him instead of coming to Rupe’s aid? That would mean he’d have to get another lawyer. He didn’t want another lawyer. He trusted Jayne, even more so since their breakthrough date that night.

This wasn’t exactly how he’d planned for the evening to end.

Shit. This was serious. Murder. Dear God, he could go to prison. He saw the funny side of most things in life, but there was nothing funny in this. His money might buy him the best legal representation, but it wouldn’t help when it came to a jury. And what would his father say? Dad was still grieving after the loss of Mum. The last thing Dad needed was to find out his son was being accused of murder.

Oh, stop rambling, Witters. They’re not going to charge you. Jayne would arrive and sort this mess out. It was all just a stupid misunderstanding.

He’d fallen into a false sense of security. When the days had passed without the police asking him any more questions, he’d assumed it was all over—that Nessa had died of natural causes, and the police hadn’t thought to tell him.

But if they thought she’d been murdered, then there had to be evidence to suggest such a thing.

A sudden urge to run, to hide—to escape from the situation—built within him like an unstoppable avalanche moving down a mountainside. His heart began to beat faster as adrenaline flooded his bloodstream. This was a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.

He made eye contact with the copper who’d been tasked with babysitting him until Jayne arrived. He tried for a bit of solidarity and understanding. Instead, he got a flat stare and a wide yawn.

The door to the interview room opened, and Jayne walked in. The Jayne of the previous night was gone. In her place stood the super-efficient lawyer, hair swept up and pinned to within an inch of its life, a briefcase clutched tightly in her hand. She wore a smart suit and classy shoes. Relief swept over Rupe.

“A moment with my client, please,” she said to the babysitter.

Without a word, the copper stood and left them alone.

“Where the hell have you been?” Rupe bit out, worry and fear making him snap.

Jayne shot him a look from the corner of her eye as she took a pad and pen out of her briefcase. She set the briefcase on the floor and carefully laid out writing materials in front of her before fixing him with a stare.

“You called me forty-five minutes ago. I was in bed. I dressed, gathered my things together, and drove here. That took thirty minutes. Then I had to get through the dick of a desk sergeant downstairs who clearly has a problem with strong, successful women. Anything else?”

Rupe scrubbed his face. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m stressing the fuck out.”

Jayne squeezed his hand, the comforting gesture of a friend, not a lawyer. “Look, I’ll represent you today, but if this does go further, I’m going to pass your case on to my partner.”

Rupe shook his head violently. “No. If this does go further—and I hope to fuck it doesn’t—I want you.”

“But I’m not a criminal lawyer. Darren is a terrific defence attorney.”

“No,” Rupe repeated firmly. “I want you.”

“Let’s discuss it later,” Jayne said with a tinge of frustration to her tone. “Now remember, stay calm, answer their questions fully, and no smart-arse remarks. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Then let’s get this show on the road.”

* * *

Detective Fisher entered the room, along with another detective Rupe hadn’t seen before. Fisher sat opposite Rupe while the other copper faffed about setting up the tape. Once satisfied, he, too, settled back in his chair.

“I need to inform you that this interview is being recorded. I am Detective Fisher, and this is Detective Armstrong. Can you please identify yourselves for the tape?”

Rupe and Jayne did as he asked.

“Thank you. The time is three oh five a.m.”

Fisher reread Rupe his rights.

“Mr Fox-Whittingham, if we can just go over your statement once more, please.”

Rupe refrained from rolling his eyes, Jayne’s warning loud in his ears. He painstakingly answered their questions, one after the other. After more than an hour of questioning, a knock at the door interrupted Fisher’s flow. A female PC put her head inside the interview room and signalled for him to follow her. Fisher stopped the tape and left the room.

Rupe squirmed in his seat as Jayne scratched her pen over the pad in front of her. Her neat swirls and squiggles could end up amounting to the beginning of a defence against a charge for a crime he hadn’t committed. People were wrongfully arrested, charged, and convicted all the time.

Nausea churned in his stomach as he waited for Fisher to return. He’d been gone a while, but when the door to the interview room opened and Fisher reentered, something about his demeanour made the hairs on the back of Rupe’s neck stand up. Fisher didn’t walk back to his chair—he swaggered. After sitting down, he started the tape and repeated who was in the room once again.

“Sorry about that,” Fisher said with a false attempt at camaraderie. “We’ve had the toxicology reports back on Mrs Reynolds.” He paused for effect. “She died of a heroin overdose.”

Rupe recoiled in his chair. “Heroin? That can’t be right. I’ve never seen Nessa take drugs.”

“The toxicology reports confirmed it. A lethal dose. She didn’t stand a chance.”

“Oh God.” A coldness settled over him. Poor Nessa. “But when did she take it? Because I never saw her. She had no needle tracks, no evidence of being a druggie. Something isn’t right.”

Fisher ignored him. Instead, he passed Rupe a plastic bag that contained a photograph of a guy in his early twenties, maybe younger. The guy looked as rough as they came. He had greasy, lank hair, dirty clothes, an emaciated body, and a wild, almost feral stare as he looked down the camera lens.

“For the tape, I am showing Mr Fox-Whittingham Exhibit 2a. Do you recognise this person?”

“No.”

Fisher pushed the photograph closer. “Look again. Make sure, please.”

Rupe pressed his lips together, and his face tightened. “I told you, no. I don’t recognise him.”

“Funny that.” Fisher leaned back in his chair. He lifted his chin and smoothed a hand down the front of his pale-blue shirt before tightening his tie. “Because that young man maintains he sold you a half a kilo of heroin the night before Mrs Reynolds died.”

Shock rolled through Rupe’s system. “I have never seen that person before in my life, and I did not buy any heroin from him.” He ran a hand over the top of his head. “I wouldn’t even know where to buy heroin. Jesus, I’m a businessman, not a druggie in search of a fix, and I don’t consort with drug addicts either.”

Fisher looked decidedly unimpressed with Rupe’s vehement defence. The detective wore a condescending smile. Rupe would have given anything to be able to smack it off his face, but as he was in enough trouble, that wouldn’t have been the smartest move.

Rupe turned to Jayne. Her face was unreadable—she’d be a killer poker player—but she had made several notes. Then she focused her gaze on Fisher, her sharp eyes reading his expression.

Fisher waited for a few moments as he let the information sink in, and then he cleared his throat and rose from his chair. “Mr Fox-Whittingham, please follow me to the custody suite, where you will be charged with the murder of Mrs Vanessa Reynolds.”