Will put the towels on the kitchen counter. “Can I get you some water?”

“No, thank you.” Sara indicated the apartment. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t offer you better accommodations.”

He smiled. “I’ve stayed in a lot worse.”

“If it’s any consolation, this is actually nicer than the hotel.”

“The food’s better anyway.” He gestured toward the opposite end of the couch. There was really nowhere else for him to sit. Still, he asked, “May I?”

Sara bent her legs up underneath her as he sat on the edge of the cushion. She crossed her arms, suddenly aware that they were alone in the same room together.

The uncomfortable silence was back. He played with his wedding ring, twisting it around his finger. She wondered if he was thinking about his wife. Sara had met the woman once at the hospital. Angie Trent was one of those vivacious, life-of-the-party types who never left the house without her makeup on. Her nails were perfect. Her skirt was tight. Her legs would have given the Pope second thoughts. She was about as different from Sara as a ripe peach was from a Popsicle stick.

Will clasped his hands together between his knees. “Thank you for dinner. Or, thank your mother. I haven’t eaten like that in …” He chuckled, rubbing his stomach. “Well, I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten like that in my life.”

“I’m so sorry she questioned you like that.”

“It’s no bother. I’m sorry for imposing.”

“It’s my fault for bringing you down here.”

“I’m sorry the hotel was closed.”

Sara cut to the chase, afraid they would spend the rest of the night trading inconsequential apologies. “What questions did you have for me?”

He paused another few seconds, staring openly. “The first one is kind of delicate.”

She tightened her arms around her waist. “All right.”

“When Chief Wallace called you earlier today to come help Tommy …” He let his voice trail off. “Do you always keep diazepam on you? That’s Valium, right?”

Sara couldn’t look him in the eye. She stared down at the coffee table. Will had obviously been working here. His laptop was closed, but the light was pulsing. Cables connected the machine to the portable printer on the floor. An unopened packet of colored folders was beside it. A wooden ruler was on top alongside a pack of colored markers. There was a stapler, paper clips, rubber bands.

“Dr. Linton?”

“Will.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “Don’t you think it’s time you started calling me Sara?”

He acquiesced. “Sara.” When she didn’t speak, he pressed. “Do you always have Valium with you?”

“No,” she admitted. She felt such shame that she could only look at the table in front of her. “They were for me. For this trip. In case …” She shrugged the rest of her answer away. How could she explain to this man why she would need to drug herself through a family holiday?

He asked, “Did Chief Wallace know that you had the Valium?”

She tried to think back on their conversation. “No. I volunteered to bring it.”

“You said you had some in your kit?”

“I didn’t want to tell him they were for—”

“It’s all right,” he stopped her. “I’m really sorry that I had to ask such a personal question. I’m just trying to figure out how it happened. Chief Wallace called you to help, but how would he know that you’d be able to?”

Sara looked up at him. Will stared back, unblinking. There was no judgment in his gaze, no pity. Sara couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at her and really seen her. Certainly not since she’d gotten into town this morning.

She told him, “Frank thought I could talk to Tommy. Talk him down, I guess.”

“Have you helped prisoners in the jail before?”

“Not really. I mean, I got called in a couple of times when there was an overdose. Once, someone had a burst appendix. I transferred them all to the hospital. I didn’t really treat them at the jail. Not medically.”

“And on the phone with Chief Wallace—”

“I’m sorry,” Sara apologized. “Could you call him Frank? It’s just—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he assured her. “On the phone before, when you said that you didn’t really remember Tommy Braham, that there was no connection with him. Did you feel like Frank was trying to push you into coming to the station?”

Sara finally saw where this was going. “You think he called me after the fact. That Tommy was already dead.” She remembered Frank looking through the cell door window. He had dropped his keys on the floor. Had that all been an act?

“As you know, time of death isn’t an exact science,” Will said. “If he called you right after he found Tommy—”

“The body was still warm,” she remembered. “But the temperature inside the cells was hot. Frank said the furnace was acting up.”

“Had you ever known it to act up before?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t stepped foot in that station in over four years.”

“The temperature was normal when I was there tonight.”

Sara sat back on the couch. These were people who had worked with Jeffrey. People she had trusted all of her life. If Frank Wallace thought Sara was going to cover something up, he was sadly mistaken. “Do you think they killed him?” She answered her own question. “I saw the blue ink from the pen. I can’t imagine they held Tommy down and scraped it across his wrists. There are easier ways to kill someone and make it look like a suicide.”

“Hanging,” he suggested. “Eighty percent of custodial suicides are achieved by hanging. Prison inmates are seven times more likely to kill themselves than the general population. Tommy fits just about every part of the profile.” Will listed it out for her. “He was unusually remorseful. He wouldn’t stop crying. He wasn’t married. He was between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. This was his first offense. He had a strong parent or guardian at home who would be angry or disappointed to learn of his incarceration.”

She admitted, “Tommy was all of those things. But why would Frank postpone finding the body?”

“You’re well respected here. A prisoner killed himself in police custody. If you say there’s nothing hinky about it, then people will believe you.”

Sara couldn’t argue with him. Dan Brock was a mortician, not a doctor. If people got it into their heads that Tommy had been killed at the jail, then Brock would be hard-pressed to disprove the rumor.

“The cartridge from the pen that Tommy used,” Will began. “Tonight, Officer Knox told me that your husband gave them all pens for Christmas one year. That’s a very thoughtful thing to do.”

“Not exactly,” Sara said before she could catch herself. “I mean, he was busy, so he asked me to …” She waved her hand, dismissing her words. She had been so annoyed with Jeffrey for asking her to track down the pens, as if her life was less busy than his. She passed this off by telling Will, “I’m sure there are things you ask your wife to do for you when you’re tied up.”