“Mr. Hunter, I’m sorry.”
“Who did this?”
“We believe it was a burglary gone wrong.”
I turned slowly.
“A burglary.”
“Yes. Forced entry at the rear door. Intruder likely panicked when she confronted him.”
I stared at him, then gently lifted Tessa’s uncast arm. I had spent enough time around violence to read bodies better than most investigators read reports.
“No scratches under her nails,” I said. “No defensive bruising on the outer forearms. No tearing around the knuckles. My wife trains kickboxing three times a week. A stranger attacks her, he leaves pieces of himself behind.”
Miller swallowed.
“She didn’t fight,” I continued. “Which means she knew the person. Or more than one person held her.”
His eyes flicked toward the hallway.
Tiny movement. Huge confession.
“We are exploring all possibilities,” he said.
“Are you?”
I stepped past him and walked into the corridor.
The Hale men fell quiet together. Even their silence looked rehearsed.
