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Sheila's mind spun like a top, trying to reconcile Feldman's confession with the evidence they had. The neighbor's statement about a dark hoodie, the vehicle seen close to Juliette's house last night, and now Feldman admitting he was there—it all pointed to him. But something held her back from making the arrest. Her instincts were telling her to dig deeper. She needed to be absolutely certain before she tried to put this man away for murder.
"Jeremy," she asked, "there's a security camera outside Juliette's house. Was it working when you were there?"
He furrowed his brow, his eyes unfocused as he tried to remember. "I...I don't know. I didn't notice." He started rubbing his right wrist with the left as if it were aching.
"Think, Jeremy," Finn said, leaning forward. "This is important."
A flicker of realization crossed Feldman's face. "Wait! I remember now. There was a camera, but it looked like it was disconnected, like someone had unplugged it or something."
Sheila and Finn exchanged a glance. If Feldman's story was true, then there could be another suspect in play, someone who had deliberately tampered with the security camera.
Or was he lying?
Feldman must have sensed their doubt, because he shook his head vehemently. "I swear it's true," he said, his eyes pleading. "If you check the camera footage, you'll see that I didn't do anything wrong. I was just trying to help Juliette like I always did." He paused, his voice barely audible as he added, "I would never hurt her."
"Unfortunately," Finn said, "we can't check that footage. That type of camera—the information is stored locally on a hard drive. Since the camera's missing..." He trailed off, leaving the implication unspoken.
Feldman's face fell, a look of despair in his eyes. "But I swear to you," he said, his voice trembling. "I never went inside Juliette's house that night. I just wanted to make sure she was okay." He paused for a moment, as if trying to find the right words to convey his point. "I love Juliette," he said finally, his voice breaking with emotion. "And if I did anything wrong, it was only out of fear for her safety."
Sheila wanted to believe him – he certainly sounded convincing – but the evidence all seemed to point toward his guilt.
Feldman was rubbing his right wrist again. "Why are you doing that?" Sheila asked. "Sore?"
"Numb," he said. "It hasn't had much feeling since the accident."
"Accident?" Sheila asked, stealing a puzzled glance at Finn.
Feldman nodded. "Car accident, about five years ago. Got peripheral neuropathy in my hand—well, both hands, but the right is a lot worse." He shook his head, as if he still couldn't believe it. "I was working construction at the time, but try swinging a hammer all day when you can hardly make a fist."
Deciding to test a theory, Sheila slid her water bottle quickly across the table. Feldman's right hand shot out, momentarily catching the bottle before it could fall over the side. Then it slipped from his grasp and he winced, clearly in pain.
"What'd you do that for?" he asked.
"Just checking," she said softly. "Do you have a record of your condition? A doctor's note, for instance?"
He nodded. "My doctor can tell you all about it. They ran tests, so if you're wondering how limited my hand is, I'm telling you it's pretty bad."
Sheila pictured the moment Feldman had attacked them at his house. Now that she thought about it, he'd been holding the knife in his left hand, not his right. It all made sense.
Her heart sank. As much as she wanted to solve Juliette's murder, she couldn't ignore the fact that the man sitting in front of her was most likely innocent. They would need to investigate his condition, but if it proved genuine, then it seemed unlikely he was their killer.
She rubbed a hand wearily across her face. Her muscles ached from the stress and tension of the day. As her hand fell back to her side, she caught Feldman staring at it intently.
"Can I...can I see your palm?" he asked hesitantly, his gaze flickering between her eyes and her hand.
She hesitated, remembering how his hands had gripped that knife not long before. But now, looking into his eyes, she saw no malice, only a desperate need for connection. Reluctantly, she extended her hand toward him, palm up.
Feldman's fingers hovered over her outstretched hand, tracing the lines without touching her skin. He furrowed his brow, struggling to recall something. "I don't really know how to do this," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Juliette tried to teach me once, but I can't remember much."
"Was Juliette a palm reader?" Finn asked, leaning forward.
"No," Feldman replied, shaking his head. "But she went to one not too long ago. That's when she started getting...scared. Said she was going to die horribly."
Sheila glanced at Finn, her eyes widening. Who was this palm reader? And why had they chosen to terrify Juliette with such a claim?
CHAPTER TEN
Sheila wearily rubbed her eyes as she sat hunched over the desk at the precinct, a bright glare from the computer screen illuminating the dark circles under her eyes. Beside her, Finn sighed and adjusted his position for the hundredth time, an empty coffee cup in his hand.
