Something was terribly wrong, but Amanda still could not get her mind to focus. She wanted to call her mother, but the police would not let her talk to anyone except them. Frank had been joined by another man in a suit, while the female officer stayed beside her. For hours, they had been in the house, dusting for prints, examining her personal records, photographing everything. They questioned her and questioned her. She was so tired. When she got up to use her powder room, the lady cop stood outside the door, like a guard.
An ugly truth began to dawn in her mind. They thought she had killed her children.
Almost certainly, these men were not the ones who came in response to her call. Those had been uniformed; these were in suits. The only one who had really introduced himself was Frank Adams. The others had not bothered. One man in a suit seemed vaguely familiar. She could not remember meeting him before, but she might have seen a picture of him. He had arrived much later than the others.
It did not help her interrogators that she was incoherent at times. She also claimed to remember almost nothing of the evening after arriving home. When the late arrival asked if she had any habits or vices, Amanda’s head jerked up. She knew she was behaving oddly. “I’m not a drug user, mister. Save your breath. Not now. Not ever. Not even in the Sixties. Feel free to test me.”
He looked at her strangely. “Mrs. Delaney, we already have. Our doctor drew blood from you right after we read you your rights.” She stared at him with a feeling of dread as he went on. “You tested positive for some kind of narcotic. We’re still trying to identify it, but we will eventually.”