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The Newtons had done the work. She offered up evidence in photographs and videos, in invoices and pay stubs. The Prines didn’t care.
“How do companies get away with stuff like this?” Myron asked.
“You’re cute when you’re naïve.”
“Am I?”
“Not really, no,” Terese said. “I wish the Newtons had come to me. I mean, as a journalist.”
“Now who’s being naïve?”
Terese considered that before nodding. “Fair.”
Still, the story arc of emails, evolving from desperation to anger to finally despair, felt natural. Then a week ago, after months of no contact, Ronald Prine received an email that police claim came from Jackie Newton’s home ISP. It simply read:
We haven’t forgotten what you did to us.
And then, two days before the murder, one final email:
You think you can just destroy our lives and not pay any price. Get ready.
“Overkill,” Myron said.
“Come again?”
He explained what Win had said. “Did Jackie Newton make any statement?”
“Just that she insists she’s innocent.”
“And her father?”
“He tried to take the fall, but he doesn’t have the physical capacity to have done it.”
“That can’t be good for her,” Myron said. “The dad thinking he has to take the fall. Makes her look guilty.”
“Right. Gallagher got him to retract.”
“That’s her attorney, right? Speaking of which, can I talk to Jackie Newton tomorrow?”
“Gallagher said if you’ll sign up as part of her legal team, yes, you can speak to Jackie. First thing in the morning.” Terese checked the time. “It’s getting late. Why don’t you take a shower and we can get into bed?”
“You’re good with the ideas.”
“There’s another terry-cloth robe in the bathroom. You can put it on if you want.”
“And if I don’t want?”
“You be you. Go.”
Myron didn’t have to be told twice.
An hour later, when they lay spent in the dark, Myron pulled Terese in close for that perfect drift-off-to-sleep spoon.
Terese whispered, “What are you thinking?”
“That you smell good.”
She smiled. “What else?”
