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knew.
    Elizabeth was dead.
    He was not going back into their bedroom to ask.

CHAPTER 8
    Early the next morning, when Randi Conway arrived at her office, she found Detective Anthony Walker waiting at her door. He was dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, a white shirt, and a suede zipper jacket. He didn’t bother to display his badge as he said, “Sorry to bother you first thing, but something’s come up. Got a few minutes?”
    â€œI have a patient arriving soon.”
    â€œThis shouldn’t take long.”
    â€œIs it about Kyle?”
    â€œNo.”
    Randi hesitated, about to ask the obvious question. Then she said, “You’re here about Elizabeth Knoebel.” Without waiting for a reply, she unlocked the door.
    There was an envelope lying on the floor. Before she could react, Walker bent down and picked it up. He noticed there was no name or address on the outside.
    â€œRent bill?” he asked with a smile.
    Randi took it from him without responding, showed him in, and gestured to the couch. She went to her desk and placed the envelope in the drawer.
    Walker figured that she either knew what it contained, was one of the least curious people he had ever met, or was simply not willing to open it in front of him. He let it go.
    â€œNice place,” he said.
    â€œThank you,” she replied.
    Unlike the adjoining room, where Randi held her group sessions in minimalist surroundings washed in cold, fluorescent lighting, this was a warm, well-furnished office. In the corner was a captain’s table with two arm chairs facing the front and a swivel chair behind. The walls were covered in a gray grass cloth. On the wall in back of her desk hung a group of diplomas and plaques announcing her various professional qualifications. The other wall space featured modern art, including a series of Folon prints framed in lacquered wood.
    Walker’s lower lip covered his upper as he stood there, taking a moment to have a look around. The couch she pointed to was plush and comfortable, upholstered in a striped cotton fabric. Across from the sofa, separated by an oblong coffee table of polished brass with a smoked glass top, was a black leather chair.
    He sat on the couch, watching as she took her place in the leather seat across from him.
    â€œLooks like you do all right,” he said.
    â€œThank you.”
    He waited for more, but Dr. Conway was obviously not in a chatty mood. “So then, you’ve heard about Mrs. Knoebel.”
    â€œI still can’t believe it,” she said.
    â€œMind if I ask how you found out?”
    â€œOne of my patients called. Then I had a look at the report on the Internet.”
    â€œYou want to tell me which patient called?”
    â€œI’m sorry. That would be privileged.”
    Walker nodded. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
    â€œWhat sort of questions.” She noticed that he had not bothered to take out a pad or pen.
    â€œYou were Elizabeth Knoebel’s therapist.”
    â€œHow did you know that?”
    â€œThe police chief called her husband last night, took some preliminary information.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œYou’re aware of how she died?”
    â€œYes,” she said.
    â€œGunshot to the right temple. Awful thing.” He waited for a reply that didn’t come. In her line of work, Walker figured she got to be pretty good at waiting people out. “When was the last time you saw Mrs. Knoebel?” he asked.
    â€œMonday afternoon. In a group session.”
    He took another look around the small, homey room. “You hold group sessions here?”
    Randi shook her head. “In there,” she said, pointing at the door behind him.
    â€œUh huh. Was she particularly distraught or upset over anything? Mrs. Knoebel, I mean.”
    â€œI’m a psychologist, Officer Walker.”
    â€œThat’s Detective Walker, but we’ve already been through that tap dance. You can just