LITMIR.BIZ

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had come from Huck, which meant that Ben had already talked to him.

      She asked, “Do you know?” That was the only thing that mattered between them right now, whether or not Ben knew why she had been at the school this morning. Because if Ben knew, then everyone else knew, which meant that Charlie had yet again found another uniquely cruel way to humiliate her husband.

      “Ben?” she asked.

      He ran his fingers through his hair. He smoothed down his tie. He had so many tells that they could never play cards together, not even Go Fish.

      “Babe, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

      There was a quick knock before the door opened. Charlie held out hope that it was her father, but an older black woman wearing a navy pantsuit and white blouse walked into the room. Her short black hair was tuffeted with white. She had a large, banged-up-looking purse on her arm that was almost as big as the one that Charlie carried to work. A laminated ID hung on a lanyard around her neck, but Charlie couldn’t read it.

      The woman said, “I’m special agent in charge Delia Wofford with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. You’re Charlotte Quinn?” She reached out to shake Charlie’s hand, but changed her mind when she saw the dried blood. “Have you been photographed?”

      Charlie nodded.

      “For godsakes.” She opened her purse and pulled out a packet of Wet Wipes. “Use as many as you need. I can get more.”

      Jonah was back with another chair. Delia pointed to the head of the table, indicating that’s where she wanted to sit. She asked Jonah, “Are you the jerk who wouldn’t let this woman clean herself up?”

      Jonah didn’t know what to do with the question. He had probably never had to answer to any woman besides his mother, and that had been a long time ago.

      “Close the door behind you.” Delia waved Jonah off as she sat down. “Ms. Quinn, we’ll get through this as quickly as possible. Do you mind if I record this?”

      Charlie shook her head. “Knock yourself out.”

      She tapped some buttons on her phone to activate the recorder, then unpacked her bag, tossing notepads and books and papers onto the table.

      The concussion made it impossible for Charlie to read anything in front of her, so she opened up the pack of Wet Wipes and got to work. She scrubbed between her fingers first, dislodging specks of black that floated like ashes from a roaring fire. The blood had seared itself into the pores. Her hands looked like an old woman’s. She was suddenly overcome with exhaustion. She wanted to go home. She wanted a hot bath. She wanted to think about what had happened today, to examine all the pieces, then gather them up, put them in a box and place it high on a shelf so that she never had to deal with it again.

      “Ms. Quinn?” Delia Wofford was offering her a bottle of water.

      Charlie almost snatched it out of the woman’s hand. She hadn’t realized she was thirsty until that moment. Half of the water was gone before the logical part of her brain reminded her that it wasn’t a good idea to drink so quickly on a sour stomach.

      “Sorry.” Charlie put her hand to her mouth to cover the noxious belch.

      The agent had obviously endured worse. “Ready?”

      “You’re recording this?”

      “Yes.”

      Charlie peeled another wipe out of the packet. “First, I want some information about Kelly Wilson.”

      Delia Wofford had enough years under her belt to not look as annoyed as she must have felt. “She’s been examined by a doctor. She’s under constant surveillance.”

      That’s not what Charlie had meant, and the agent knew it. “There are nine factors you have to consider before ascertaining whether or not a juvenile’s statement is—”

      “Ms. Quinn,” Delia interrupted. “Let’s stop worrying about Kelly Wilson and start worrying about you. I’m sure you don’t want to spend a second longer here than you absolutely have to.”

      Charlie would’ve rolled her eyes if not for the fear of making herself dizzy. “She’s sixteen. She’s not old enough to—”

      “Eighteen.”

      Charlie stopped cleaning her hands. She stared at Ben, not Delia Wofford, because they had both agreed very early on in their marriage that a lie by omission was still a lie.

      Ben stared back. His expression told her nothing.

      Delia said, “According to her birth certificate, Kelly Wilson turned eighteen two days ago.”

      “You’ve—” Charlie had to look away from Ben because their broken marriage took a back seat to a death warrant. “You’ve seen her birth certificate?”

      Delia shuffled through a stack of folders until she found what she was looking for. She put a sheet of paper in front of Charlie. All Charlie could make out was a round, official-looking seal.

      Delia said, “The school records back it up, but we were faxed this official copy from the Georgia Department of Health an hour ago.” Her finger pointed to what must have been Kelly’s birth date. “She turned eighteen at six twenty-three on Saturday morning, but you know the law gives her until midnight before she’s officially an adult.”

      Charlie felt sick. Two days. Forty-eight hours meant the difference between life with a possibility of parole and death by lethal injection.

      “She was held back a grade. That’s probably where the confusion lies.”

      “What was she doing at the middle school?”

      “There are still a great many unanswered questions.” Delia dug around in her purse and found a pen. “Now, Ms. Quinn, for the record, are you willing to give a statement? It’s your right to refuse. You know that.”

      Charlie could barely follow the agent’s words. She placed her palm flat against her stomach, forcing it to calm. Even if by some miracle Kelly Wilson managed to avoid the death penalty, Georgia’s Seven Deadly Sins law would make sure she never got out of prison.

      Would that be so wrong?

      There was no ambiguity here. Kelly had literally been caught holding the murder weapon in her hands.

      Charlie looked at her own hands, still bloody from the little girl who had died in her arms. Died because Kelly Wilson had shot her. Murdered her. Just like she had murdered Mr. Pinkman.

      “Ms. Quinn?” Delia glanced at her watch, but Charlie knew the woman was exactly where she needed to be.

      Charlie also knew how the legal system worked. No one would tell the story of what happened this morning without an eye toward nailing Kelly Wilson to a cross. Not the eight cops who were there. Not Huck Huckabee. Maybe not even Mrs. Pinkman, whose husband had been murdered not ten yards from her classroom door.

      Charlie said, “I agree to give a statement.”

      Delia had a legal pad in front of her. She twisted open her pen. “Ms. Quinn, first I want to tell you how sorry I am that you’ve been pulled into this. I’m aware of your family history. I’m sure it was difficult witnessing …”

      Charlie rolled her hand, indicating she should move on.

      “All right,” Delia said. “This next bit I have to say. I want you to know that the door behind me is unlocked. You’re not under arrest. You are not being detained. As I told you before, you’re free to leave at any time, though as one of the few witnesses to today’s tragedy, your voluntary statement could be instrumental in helping us put together what happened.”

      Charlie noted that the woman had not warned her that lying to a GBI agent could land her in prison. “You want me to help you build your case against Kelly Wilson.”

      “I just want you

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