Free Snapped by Laura Griffin

tacit agreement, Angela did the talking tonight. “Played freeze tag, watched SpongeBob, and folded clothes.”
    “Whose clothes?”
    They both shrugged.
    Gretchen watched her girls shovel macaroni into their mouths. Their appetites amazed her. It was probably another growth spurt, one that was going to strain her bank account.
    “Mrs. Garcia’s clothes?” she asked.
    “No. Boy clothes.”
    “
Man
clothes,” Amy corrected.
    Gretchen considered that. Mrs. Garcia lived alone, so either she was taking in people’s laundry or she’d gotten herself a boyfriend. The woman was sixty-four and on the frumpy side, so Gretchen guessed this was another one of her businesses. She wasn’t sure she approved of her six-year-old daughters being used as un-hired help, but she couldn’t really complain. Affordable babysitters were scarce, and Gretchen couldn’t have any disruptions at work.
    “Can I have more hot dog?” Amy asked, popping a chunk into her mouth.
    “Use your fork, honey. And no, we’re out.”
    Two pairs of solemn blue eyes looked up at her. They didn’t say anything, which was worse than complaining. Now Gretchen felt guilty. She got up and retrieved the TV remote from the coffee table to give herself a distraction.
    News, sports, reality shows, more news. She tuned it to CNN and settled back in her chair.
    “Amy, your fork, honey.” Gretchen slid the fork toward her, and she picked it up reluctantly. Her sister followed suit.
    “Mommy, what’s a massacre?”
    Gretchen darted a glance at the television. It was that school shooting down in Texas again.
    “It’s when someone kills a lot of people.”
    Both girls looked up.
    “Why would someone kill a lot of people?” Angela asked.
    Gretchen cast a wary look at the screen. Why, indeed? Why did men beat their wives, or drink too much, or do
any
thing? “I don’t know, honey. Amy, your
fork
.”
    “But hot dogs are
finger
food. You said so.”
    A knock sounded at the door, and Gretchen got up.
    “Not without a bun,” she said. “And don’t argue with me.”
    She shifted the curtain on the window beside the door and peered out.
    Her heart skittered.
    A pair of men in army dress uniforms stood on her doorstep. During every one of Jim’s deployments, she’d had nightmares about a scene like this. But Jim was out now, and anyway they were divorced. These men must have the wrong apartment.
    She swung open the door and looked them over. Two crew cuts, two pairs of broad shoulders, two stony expressions.
    “Gretchen Himmel?”
    “No,” she said, her heart pounding now. “That is, not anymore.”
    They stared at her.
    “Are you the former wife of James K. Himmel?”
    “I am.”
    Gretchen’s chest tightened. Jim was
out
. What were these men doing here?
    The TV droned behind her, talking about the sniper who’d climbed to the top of that library and shot all those people.
    One of the soldiers glanced behind her at the television, and suddenly she
knew
. Her blood turned to ice.
    “Ma’am, we need to talk to you about your ex-husband.”
    Oh, no. Oh, Jim, how could you?
    She clamped a hand over her mouth and thought about the girls.
    James Himmel had spent his final night on earth in the Happy Trails Motel cleaning his guns.
    Jonah watched one of the crime-scene techs lift a pair of oily rags from the trash.
    “CLP oil, by the smell of it,” Jonah said.
    The technician dropped the rags into a paper evidence bag and dipped his gloved hand back into the waste basket. In about the only stroke of luck they’d had in this case, Himmel’s room hadn’t been cleaned yet when Sean called the motel to check on a credit-card transaction.Jonah had his secondary crime scene now, and it wasn’t nearly as grisly as he’d feared.
    “Just heard from Sean,” Ric said. “They had the ex in there for more than two hours, and she swears she hasn’t seen him in more than a year. No recent fights or harassment.”
    Jonah muttered a curse. Another dead end on