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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