Free Agnes Hahn by RICHARD SATTERLIE

steering wheel.
    Jason ushered Agnes to her car, but paused by the hood. “Do you want to drive?”
    Her focus stayed on the ground. “No.”
    He couldn’t decipher her expression. Can one be truly blank? Indifferent, maybe.
    A double push on the remote button, and the car doors clunked an invitation.
    Agnes slipped into the Honda and settled into the seat like it was an old friend, but then she stiffened, staring ahead, hands on her lap. Her feet and knees clamped together, like she was uncomfortable, afraid.
    As the Honda turned left out of the parking lot, Jason peeked in the rearview mirror. The Ford followed. He assumed Officer Wilson wouldn’t bother giving tickets on this trip, but he pushed aside the temptation to test the theory. He signaled every lane change and turn, and kept the speedometer dead on the posted limit. Agnes remained silent so he forced a conversation.
    “Are you glad to be out?”
    Yes.
    “Yes.”
    “Do you want to talk about Lilin?”
    No.
    “No.”
    “No, not now, or no, not ever?”
    No answer.
    He looked over at her.
    “Not now,” she said.
    He smiled. “You’ll tell me when?”
    Silence.
    Officer Wilson didn’t follow the turn into Agnes’s driveway. The Ford stopped directly across the street. Jason slowed and scanned the lot. Wilson’s observation site gave an unobstructed view of the entire front of the house, as well as the garage and adjacent side yard.
    As he pulled the Honda to the garage door, Agnes’s hand shot toward him and he jerked back, bumping his head on the window. She thrust a pointed finger at the driver’s side visor, jabbing at the black plastic remote switch. The garage door grunted, then slowly lifted.
    Despite the tingling in his armpits and the heat radiating from his face, Jason forced himself to straighten, inched the car into the center of the double garage, and looked over his shoulder to judge the clearance of the rear of the car. His eyes strayed farther. Officer Wilson sat in his car, staring.
    A thunderous roar sounded through the garage. Jason nearly came out of his skin, his heart thumping. The jarring sound gave way to a constant whir and he realized Agnes had pushed the remote button again. Moisture formed along his hairline.
    He thought about throwing the Honda in reverse, flooring it to break the control beam and stop the descending door, but the dwindling light told him he was too late. He looked over at Agnes. She sat in her original posture, staring straight ahead.
    He twisted the key and yanked it from the ignition as the light in the garage settled down to the glow of a forty-watt bulb. What if she was the killer?
    Fumbling, he flicked the door handle and slid out of the car, slamming the door behind him.
    Agnes remained frozen for what seemed an eternity, but was more like fifteen seconds. She slipped out of the car and walked to the front fender. He felt himself move to the rear, keeping the full width of the car between them.
    She stopped, and a puzzled expression swept her face. “Do you want to come in?”
    He looked around. There was no other choice. The side door of the garage opened into the house. The only other exit was the large garage door, which was now tightly closed. He could get to the remote on the visor before she could, but that would place him in a vulnerable position, inside the car. He shook his head. What was he thinking? She was as meek as they came and barely over a hundred pounds. The murders didn’t involve guns—weapons of distance. Blades were close range. Intimate. He could handle her up close. Just like the victims?
    “We can talk now,” she said. “But only for a little while. I’m tired.”
    She keyed the door and walked in, leaving the door open behind her.
    He moved to the doorway and peered inside. He knew the layout. The small entryway led in two directions. The kitchen was to the back, living room to the front. Agnes walked to the front and he followed.
    “Please sit down. Would you like