"He didn't do it!"

The hysterical shouting pulled Detective Madison Knight's attention from her monitor to a woman rushing toward her.

What the hell?

Madison rose from her chair and held up her hands to stop the woman. "I'm going to ask that you—"

"Detective Knight." The woman stated this as if they had met before.

"That's me, but—"

Officer Ranson, the female officer who manned the front desk, stepped into view and mouthed, Sorry, to Madison.

Another officer brushed past Ranson and slipped his hands under the woman's arms. "Let's go."

He pulled on her, but she stayed still. Her eyes steadied on Madison.

"Please help me." She attempted to shake loose from the officer's grip. Her frown lines were deep burrows, her eyes were sunken, and the flesh around them was puffy. She appeared to be rough-edged, and while there was something desperate about her, Madison wasn't reading anything sinister.

"I've got this," Madison said, though begrudgingly. The only reason she was at the police station today was because it was Sunday, and typically, Sundays were quiet. She had plans to dig into her cold case.

"All right. Your call." The male officer let go of the woman, and he and Ranson left.

"I saw your face in the paper." The woman held up the Stiles Times and jabbed a fingertip to a photograph.

Madison passed a glance at the paper. It captured a moment she wished to forget. A day when she had been forced to speak in front of a crowd and take pride in the job she had done. The thing was, though, most good cops couldn't care less about the recognition—and Madison was one of them.

"It's you, isn't it?" Her lashes were caked with mascara, and she blinked so slowly that Madison wondered if the cosmetic had sealed her eyes shut.

"Yeah, that's me."

"Well, he wouldn't have done what they said he did."

Madison summoned patience and took a deep breath. She actually felt like she'd been making headway. A list of local printing companies—which could prove to be a vital link in the chain of evidence against the Russian Mafia—was on her monitor right now, waiting for her review.

She glanced at it and turned back to the woman. "Come with me."

Madison kept the woman to the side of her. Her first impression was the woman didn't pose a threat, but she still wasn't willing to risk her back by leading the way. She took her to a soft interview room with a couch and chairs, and then gestured for the woman to enter first.

The woman dropped her red purse heavily on the coffee table and pulled off her jean jacket, which she folded and put on the cushion beside her as she sat on the couch. She was wearing an oversized pink sweater, but it still managed to display more cleavage than Madison had any hope of ever seeing on herself. The woman rummaged through her large bag and came out with a stick of gum that she popped into her mouth. She chomped on it like a cow on cud.

Madison remained standing and said, "Let's start with your name—"

"Vilma with an 'i.' Thorne is the last name, or it would have been. My God, Kev!" She raised her face upward as if calling out to a greater being, her gum chewing paused momentarily.

"Vilma..." Madison tried to tune out the dramatics. She was getting a headache. "Let's start at the beginning. Why are you here, and who is Kev?"

Vilma stuck her finger through one of the large gold hoops dangling from her ears and leaned in.

Madison inhaled a strong blend of cheap perfume and cigarettes. She risked taking a deeper whiff—maybe it wasn't perfume but whiskey. Though Vilma appeared sober. But maybe it had been an error in judgment to give her an audience... "Okay, Vilma. If you need my help, I need you to talk to me."

"My family is against what he did. But he didn't do it! He wouldn't do it. Not two days before our wedding!" Her voice rose, tears flowed. She stopped chewing and, sniffling, went rooting in her purse for a second time. Madison held her breath—just a little—wondering what was going to come out. This time, the woman held a well-used tissue and dabbed it to her nose. "And tomorrow he's going in the ground and no one will know the truth of what really happened!"

"You keep saying he didn't do it." Madison's patience had hit its limit. "Do what?"

A tissue still pinched on the tip of her nose, Vilma said, "Kevin didn't kill himself. Someone killed him."