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suggested that I sign on one of two lines reserved for witnesses. Ms. Robertson had signed in the other space.
    “I’ll call Marlise,” Corman said, “and tell her we’re on our way. I’ll wait until we’re there to break the news about what’s occurred here today. I don’t want her to be alone when she hears it. It’s good that you’re here, Mrs. Fletcher. She’ll need a good friend.”
    Had I been honest, I would have admitted that had my suitcase not already been delivered to the hotel, I would have considered hailing a taxi and heading right back to O’Hare Airport. The thought of being a buffer against what was sure to be an anguished reaction from Marlise wasn’t a palatable contemplation. There she was, alone at the home in which her husband had been brutally murdered, expecting the arrival of her stepson, who supposedly would validate her claim of what she had done the night of the killing. Instead, he was delivering what could be a death warrant.
    Corman’s expression reflected abject pain as he said, “Under the rules of disclosure, I’m obligated to inform the DA’s office of Wayne’s allegation. That’s bad enough. It’s possible that based upon what he’s stated here the DA will bring formal charges against her. I’m not happy having to break the news to Marlise. She was so relieved that Wayne was returning and would vouch for her innocence. She’ll be devastated.”
    Corman’s feeling mirrored mine. Of course, he didn’t have a choice. As an officer of the court he was legally obligated to turn Wayne’s statement over to the prosecutors. For a fleeting moment I wondered whether it would have been better for Wayne to have stayed away, to have disappeared for good, but I knew that wouldn’t have solved anything. I also suffered a moment of guilt at having persuaded him to return to Chicago. But such thoughts were unrealistic at best. Wayne had a duty to report what he’d seen, no matter who was hurt in the process, and I’d done the right thing in encouraging him to come home and face the music.
    Corman called Marlise from the conference room and simply told her that we’d be there in half an hour. Although I couldn’t hear her side of the conversation, it was obvious that she asked the attorney questions that he deftly avoided answering. At one point he said, “We can get into that when we get there, Marlise. What? Yes, Wayne and Mrs. Fletcher will be with me. See you soon.”
    The driver was waiting when we came down from Corman’s office.
    “Your suitcase is at the hotel, ma’am,” he said.
    “Good. Thank you.”
    Although it took only twenty minutes to reach Marlise’s house, it seemed like a multi-hour drive. No one said anything, each of us deep in our own tormented thoughts. It wasn’t until we’d pulled into a circular drive that Wayne said, “I should go stay with friends.”
    The harsh, skeptical look that Corman gave Wayne said to me that he questioned the young man’s truthfulness, and although I had nothing tangible upon which to base a judgment, I questioned it, too.

Chapter Seven
    B efore we were able to get out of the SUV, Marlise came through the front door and bounded down the steps. Although many years had passed since I’d last seen her, she had the same youthful, winning smile and spark in her eyes that I remembered. Her platinum hair was pulled back into a ponytail that bounced when she moved. She wore tailored tan slacks, a white silk blouse, and sandals. As she approached, the driver lowered the windows on the passenger side.
    “Jessica?” she said as she leaned in the open window.
    “Marlise,” I said, taking her hands in mine. “I’m so sorry about Jonathon.”
    Her smile disappeared and her eyes became moist. “Oh, dear, dear Jessica. It’s the most awful thing—but we can talk about that later. I’m just so happy that you’re here.”
    She looked past me at Wayne. “Welcome home, darling,” she said. “I’ve been so worried