“What did she say?”

“She denied it. She said she would never do that. But,” Tim said, his voice lowering to a whisper, “what was on that Web site… it’s exactly what I said. Exactly. Verbatim. She was the only person in the room. How could that be?”

“Tell me what happened here tonight.”

Tim tried to gather himself, taking two deep breaths and squeezing his handcuffed hands like he was accustomed to using them when he talked. “We got into an argument. I accused Darla of telling the Caldwells. She said she didn’t. It just got more and more heated. She accused me of some things… of never knowing when to shut up.” He sniffled. “Which is true. My mouth and my ego, they kind of get in the way sometimes. And… people are talking. About us. About me.”

“Then what happened?”

Tim covered his eyes as if he were being forced to watch it all over again. “I wasn’t thinking. I was so enraged. I couldn’t imagine how all this was happening.” He looked toward the kitchen, his gaze glued to the floor where blood was smeared across the white and gray tile. “There was the remote sitting on the coffee table. I picked it up. Darla said something-I can’t even remember what now-and I turned and threw it. I think she had moved; I’m not sure. It hit her… right…” Shaking fingers moved to his skull, just above his right ear.

“Did you call the police?”

“Yes.”

Grayson walked back in. “Let’s get him to the station, Merret.”

Frank helped Tim to his feet and handed him over to two officers behind Grayson. They led him out of the house.

“What a mess,” Grayson said. “That guy’s going to do some heavy time. All for losing his temper. Did you get anything useful?”

“He definitely did it. But it sounds like he didn’t mean to hit her with the remote.”

“Yeah, well, he can explain that to a judge. I’m going home.”

Grayson and Frank walked out of the house. Frank tried to find Damien in the crowd, then noticed Reverend Caldwell walking straight toward him.

“Reverend Caldwell,” Frank said.

The reverend put his hand on Frank’s shoulder, lowered his voice. “I’ve known this man for a long time. I know what he did in there, but that’s out of character.”

Frank sighed, searching the reverend’s pleading eyes. “I understand, sir. But this is not working in his favor. He assaulted his wife.”

“I know. I know. This is very bad. All of it. But I know this man. And I know he’s not what everyone is saying he is.”

“What is everyone saying?”

“Empty words. Accusations.” A sadness swept over the reverend’s expression. “We’re neighbors. We’re supposed to look after one another.” He gestured toward the Shaws’ house. “All this over a conversation. We humans can tame animals, birds, reptiles, and fish, but no one can tame the tongue.”

Reverend Caldwell’s words crawled over Frank’s flesh. All that could be heard was the low, fretful murmuring of the nearby crowd.

“Officer? Are you all right?”

“I’ll be in touch.”

Damien stood in the middle of the street for a moment, taking it all in. He wanted a complete picture for the story, which included the setting-a quiet neighborhood in Marlo, just two blocks from their world-famous chocolate shop, erupting in violence on what on any ordinary day would be a playful, tranquil street. Damien noticed a crowd gathered on the lawn directly across from where the incident took place, whatever that incident might be.

A stretcher with medical personnel around it had made a hasty exit out of the home on the left. He caught a glimpse of a woman lying on it as they wheeled her toward the ambulance. The EMTs were in a hurry to get her loaded. A couple of firefighters helped lift the stretcher.

Damien took out his notepad and wrote down a few words to help him remember the moment. Yeah, he knew, this was supposed to be investigative reporting, but cold, hard facts don’t always tell the complete story.

At least, in his opinion.

The wailing sirens of the ambulance caused him to shiver. Whatever happened here, it wasn’t good. Wasn’t right. Through the glowing front window of the home where the lady was taken from, he saw Frank pass by, hands on his hips, a strangely fierce look on his face.

He decided to see if someone from the crowd would talk to him. He pulled his newspaper ID badge from his wallet and clipped it on his shirt. Just a few short steps toward them already drew attention. They all stared as he approached.

He smiled pleasantly but not eagerly. “Hi, folks. I’m Damien Underwood from the paper. Can I ask some of you a few questions?”

An elderly woman with a tight expression sized him up. “From the paper, you say? Underwood? Don’t you write those opinion pieces?”

“Yes.”

“And crosswords,” someone else said. “A little easy for my taste.”

Damien held up a hand before anyone else wanted to give an opinion. “Folks, listen. I’m here to talk about what happened tonight. What’s going on over there?”

A bald, overweight man with motorcycle pants on said, “All we heard was that the husband nearly beat his wife to death.”

“They just brought her out on a stretcher. She looked half-dead,” the elderly woman said.

Damien quickly took notes. The recorder would’ve been better, but people were talking. Now. It would take him several minutes to figure out how Jenna got to the right menu to bring up the recorder on the phone.

“I always thought that man had a mean streak in him,” a woman wearing a dirty apron said.

Another woman scoffed. “Whatever, Ginger. I’ve seen you over there flirting.”

“What are you talking about?” Ginger said, her eyes white-hot.

“You and Sara are always talking about him.”

“Shut up, Pam. No we’re not.”

“Really? Because the Web site says differently.”

Ginger suddenly lunged at Pam, who gasped and stumbled back into the crowd.

Damien stepped out of the way and observed the two women shouting obscenities at each other while others kept them from swinging punches. He carefully wrote down what he’d heard, but there was such a ruckus he wasn’t sure he was going to get any more quotes.

He glanced across the street and noticed Frank talking to a man. They wrapped up their conversation, and Frank headed to his truck. Damien decided he’d better get there too before a full-blown riot took place over who flirted with the man who beat his wife.

“Dad?”

Damien turned as he heard a young voice, much like his daughter’s. A teenage girl shoved her way through the crowd.

The man Damien saw Frank talking to rushed over to her. “Come on, Gabriella. Let’s get you inside. You don’t need to see this.”

“Dad, what’s going on?”

Their conversation faded into the crowd noise as they tried to make their way to the house.

“You’re a jerk!” someone yelled.

Damien and Frank both turned around.

A man, presumably Tim Shaw, was being led away in handcuffs. His head hung low, and he never looked up, not even once he was in the cruiser.

Damien scribbled more notes. Behind him, he heard a man say, “Come on. Let’s go home. I want to see this Web site they’re talking about.” The crowd began to disperse.

Frank unlocked his truck and climbed in.

“What a night,” Damien said, joining him.

Frank started the engine.

“Heard he beat his wife half to death.”

Frank backed up, swerving around cars and people, into a driveway so he could turn around. “You better get your facts straight. He threw a remote control and it hit her.”

Damien smiled. “Can I quote you on that?”

Frank didn’t laugh. He just drove.

“So you believe him?” Damien asked.

“I don’t know. I’m just telling you what he told me.” Frank turned left on Arberry Street.

“Where are we going? My house is that way.”

But Frank didn’t answer.