Ryan Hale.
Forty-four.
My husband.
The man I had slept beside for fifteen years.
The man who brought me coffee on Sunday mornings.
The man who sent my mother flowers on Mother’s Day.
The man who knew exactly how I liked my eggs and what side of the bed I slept on.
Dwyer tapped the statement.
“Mr. Hale says your mother became agitated during an argument and attacked him with a fireplace poker.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“He says he disarmed her and used reasonable force because he feared for his life.”
“Have you been inside my mother’s house?”
“No.”
“She has no fireplace.”
Dwyer went very still.
“She has electric baseboard heating. The old chimney was sealed before she bought the property in 1987. There has never been a fireplace poker in that house.”
The sergeant looked down at the report.
For the first time, I saw doubt move across his face.
