In the Woods

"I'm not interested."

"Watch that tape right now or, I swear to God, by tomorrow morning I'll have your face plastered across every newspaper in the country."

It wasn't the threat itself that got me; it was more the fact that she had made it, had played what had to be her trump card. It sparked something in me: a harsh curiosity, mixed-or perhaps this is only hindsight, I don't know-with some faint, dreadful premonition. I retrieved the tape from the corner, switched it into the VCR and hit Play. Cassie, her arms clasped tightly at her waist, watched me without moving. I swung a chair around and sat down in front of the screen, my back to her.

It was the fuzzy black-and-white tape of Cassie's session with Rosalind the night before. The time stamp showed 8:27; in the next room, I had been just about to give up on Damien. Rosalind was on her own in the main interview room, redoing her lipstick in a little compact mirror. There were sounds in the background, and it took me a moment to recognize that they were familiar: hoarse, helpless sobs, and my own voice saying over them, without much hope, "Damien, I need you to explain to me why you did this." Cassie had switched on the intercom and set it to pick up my interview room. Rosalind's head went up; she stared at the one-way glass, her face utterly expressionless.

The door opened and Cassie came in, and Rosalind recapped her lipstick and tucked it into her purse. Damien was still sobbing. "Shit," Cassie said, glancing up at the intercom. "Sorry about that." She switched it off; Rosalind gave a tight, displeased little smile.

"Detective Maddox interviewing Rosalind Frances Devlin," Cassie said to the camera. "Have a seat."

Rosalind didn't move. "I'm afraid I'd prefer not to talk to you," she said, in an icy, dismissive voice I had never heard her use before. "I'd like to speak with Detective Ryan."

"Sorry, can't be done," Cassie said cheerfully, pulling out a chair for herself. "He's in an interview-as I'm sure you heard," she added, with a rueful little grin.

"Then I'll come back when he's free." Rosalind tucked her bag under her arm and headed for the door.

"Just a moment, Miss Devlin," Cassie said, and there was a new, hard edge in her voice. Rosalind sighed and turned, eyebrows raised contemptuously. "Is there any particular reason why you're suddenly so reluctant to answer questions about your sister's murder?"

I saw Rosalind's eyes flick up at the camera, just for a flash, but that tiny cold smile didn't change. "I think you know, Detective, if you're honest with yourself," she said, "that I'm more than willing to help the investigation in any way I can. I simply don't want to talk to you, and I'm sure you know why."

"Let's pretend I don't."

"Oh, Detective, it's been obvious from the start that you don't care about my sister at all. You're only interested in flirting with Detective Ryan. Isn't it against the rules to sleep with your partner?"

A fresh spurt of fury shot through me, so violent it took my breath away. "Jesus Christ! Is that

what all this was about? Just because you thought I told her-" Rosalind had been shooting in the dark, I had never said a word about that to her or to anyone else; and for Cassie to think I would, to take this kind of revenge without even bothering to ask me-

"Shut up," she said coldly, behind me. I clenched my hands together and stared at the TV. I was almost too angry to see.

On the screen, Cassie hadn't even flinched; she was tilting her chair back on two legs and shaking her head, amused. "Sorry, Miss Devlin, but I don't get distracted that easily. Detective Ryan and I feel exactly the same way about your sister's death: we want to find her killer. So why is it, again, that you suddenly don't want to talk about it?"

Rosalind laughed. "Exactly the same way? Oh, I don't think so, Detective. He has a very special connection to this case, doesn't he?"

Even in the blurry picture I could see Cassie's fast blink, and the savage flash of triumph on Rosalind's face as she realized she had got past her guard this time. "Oh," she said, sweetly. "You mean you don't know?"

She only paused for a fraction of a second, just enough to heighten the effect, but to me it seemed to last forever; because I knew, with a hideous vortexing sense of inevitability, I knew what she was going to say. I suppose this must be what stuntmen feel when a fall goes horribly wrong, or jockeys coming off at full gallop: that oddly calm splinter of time, just before your body shatters against the ground, when your mind is wiped clean of everything except the one simple certainty: This is it, then. Here it comes.