Free A Cold and Lonely Place: A Novel by Sara J. Henry Page A

knew him before that.”
    “You never went to his place?”
    I gave a short bark of laughter before I could stop myself. “No, of course not.”
    “So you were never in his house?”
    “Of course not,” I repeated.
    “Do you know where it was?”
    “Vaguely. It’s on one of the roads off Highway 73 toward Keene. I gave him a ride home once.” It had been snowing and Tobin was hitchhiking; he said he’d had too much to drink to want to drive. It had surprised me, because it wasn’t rare in these towns for guys to get behind the wheel with sky-high blood alcohol.
    The investigator seemed to smirk. “But you just said you’d never been at his house.”
    “No, I said I hadn’t been
in
his house. And it wasn’t a house, it was a cabin, a small cabin.”
    “And you never went inside?”
    I sighed inwardly. This game I knew. Keep repeating the question to see if I changed my answer.
    “No,” I said. “I never went in. Not once. Not ever. I stoppedmy car; he got out and walked to his front door. I drove home. Period, end of story. I don’t even know if I could find it again.”
    “And what is your relationship with Jessamyn Field?”
    I felt like throwing up my hands. “She’s one of my roommates. She’s lived there since late summer.”
    “But you went out of town together.”
    Suddenly meeting the investigator before lunch didn’t seem like such a great idea. I was hungry and getting crosser by the minute.
    “Yes,” I said, and couldn’t keep the edge from my voice. “I’ve been known to go out of town with many different people, some roommates, some not.” I pulled two business cards out of my wallet that I’d put there yesterday, possibly because a little voice in the back of my head had hinted I might need them. I set Philippe’s card on the desk. “Here’s the friend I was visiting in Ottawa.” Then I placed Jameson’s card on top. “Here’s another friend I saw while I was there, a detective with the Ottawa Police Service. You can call either of them and ask them whatever you want.” I stood up and started for the door. He let me go.
    So much for advising Jessamyn to stay cool and calm. She was smart enough not to ask anything, and just followed me to the car. I reached into the box of food in the trunk and pulled out a turnover. I offered her one, but she shook her head. I finished it as I pulled out of the lot.
    “Didn’t go well, huh?” Jessamyn asked after a while.
    “Nope,” I said.
    She started to say something else, but we were nearing the house and could see someone on the front porch, perched on the edge of the big swing.
    I sighed. “We could park in the back and go in the kitchen door. I think we can get it open.”
    “No,” she said. “I’m tired of this. Let’s just go in.”
    We parked in my usual spot in front of the house, and the woman stood as we came up the steps. She was, I guessed, in her mid- to late twenties, trim, attractive, with brown hair to her shoulders,and stylish earmuffs instead of the thick knit hats Jessamyn and I wore. Her jeans and boots and coat were far nicer than I’d ever had or thought about having. She looked tired and cold.
    She took a step toward us. I was thinking she didn’t look like a reporter when she spoke. And just before the words came out of her mouth, I guessed who she was.
    “I’m Tobin’s sister,” she said, looking from one of us to the other. “I’m Jessica Winslow.”

CHAPTER 15
    If Jessamyn and I hadn’t just had the week we’d had, this woman showing up on our doorstep might have thrown us for a loop. But in a way it seemed the inevitable next step in an inexorable chain of events:
body found, media blitz, escape to Canada, police interview, arrival of bereaved sister
. We didn’t know if she was here to blame or commiserate, and didn’t ask. We just told her who we were and invited her in. I unlocked the door and led the way inside, and turned on the water for tea. We sat at the kitchen table. I opened