Justin Kramer knew two things for certain. One, he hadn t murdered his wife. Two, the detectives weren t buying it. The four-month-old memory of Amelia s body lying facedown on the blue living-room carpet was etched as a horrifying image in his mind. An image Justin knew he wouldn t shake for the rest of his life---which, if the cops had their way, would be spent up the river, with- out possibility of parole. The detectives stood over him like a couple of lions working together to bring down a zebra. Justin s glare swept them both. \"What do you think my wife s killer is doing while you two are playing good cop/bad cop for the third time?\" Detective Raney slapped his hands flat on the table and rested his considerable weight on tree trunk-like arms. He leaned forward and stared Justin square in the eye. Disgusted, Justin clamped his lips together and shifted backward. The guy s breath stank of cigarettes
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