The first thing Robbie noticed about the colonel when he opened the door was his size. Tony Shaw was big. In-shape big. Big enough to overpower a woman like Elizabeth.

The second thing was how awkward it made him seem. He moved with a cautious awareness, as if he half-expected to knock something over at any given moment. David in Goliath's body.

Next was the checkered shirt and grey sweater vest that would have given Mr. Rogers a run for his money. Yet despite the average-guy outfit, he screamed military, and it wasn't just the high-and-tight blonde hair. Moreso it was the authority in his stare, the alertness to his surroundings, the politeness of his focus, all stemming from a career built on discipline. Middle age had not dulled that training in the slightest.

"Colonel Shaw, sir." Paul extended his hand to meet the colonel's. "I'm Captain Sullivan."

"Yes, nice to meet you. Grant said you would be stopping by."

Paul swung his arm in Robbie's direction. "This is Agent Westcott of the FBI. She is helping me with your case."

You would have thought he'd said she was the queen of England the way Tony Shaw's jaw dropped and eyes widened. Her outstretched hand was grabbed by his large one and pumped like it was a well pulling up water, but the grip was gentle, as if he was worried his oversized mitt might hurt her. Not at all what she was used to from other service members she had met, including Mr. Macho standing beside her.

"Did you know my wife?" the man asked.

She shook her head. "No, we never met."

"Oh." Shaw's eyes found the ground as he let her loose to shove both of his hands inside the pockets of his slacks. "Well," he exhaled, looking deep in thought before reality gave him a little start. "Sorry, come in, please," he added, backing that big body up to make room for them.

They followed him to a pair of couches in the living room. Paul set himself up on the one across from Shaw, making a point of leaving plenty of room next to him, but Robbie stayed standing.

"Do you mind if I take a look around the house?" she asked of its owner.

"No, not at all, be my guest."

"Thanks."

Robbie could feel Paul's eyes boring into her back as she walked off. The men's voices were reduced to a dull murmur once she turned the corner into the small but modern kitchen. The stove beckoned to her, only because the reports had detailed the fact that Elizabeth Shaw had been cooking dinner when she was killed. She ran her hands over its smooth surface. "Would you be cooking for someone you were afraid of?" she whispered. If only it could answer, clear the case right up.

An old-school calendar was pinned to the far wall, its penciled-in activities written in what looked like a woman's scroll. Robbie pulled out her cell phone and snapped a picture, then flipped to the previous months and took some more.

Through the archway loomed the dining room. She was familiar with the layout from the evidence photos, but that didn't lessen the bitter cold running through her veins when she walked into it. Everything seemed in place. Dark furniture lined the walls and showcased the couple's china and crystal. The table at the center of it all was covered with a linen tablecloth. Her breath caught when she slowly peeled it back. Gashes scarred the flat glossy finish, and evidently, bloodstains were not easy to remove from freshly exposed wood. The dark crimson notches bore proof of the violence that had taken place there. Jesus, no wonder he covers it. Ignoring the sudden rush of perverted guilt, she grabbed another photo.

Upstairs she entered the first doorway on the right. The room was distinctly feminine, the dusty pink walls a match to the flowered bedspread and curtains. The jam-packed closet with its long lineup of shoes suggested recent use, but there wasn't a single item of the male variety in the mix. Separate bedrooms, Elizabeth? Why is that? With nothing out of the ordinary to be found, Robbie turned her attention to the furniture, starting with the side table by the bed. Paperbacks, hair clips, a flashlight, some jewelry, the junk most people accumulate over time filled the top drawer, but the bottom one held a little surprise. Pictures, dozens of them, were scattered inside the wood cavity like they'd been thrown in, not placed. They were all of Elizabeth, her smiling face focused on the person behind the camera, the variety of outfits suggesting the photos were from different days. Many different days.

Deciding they might be useful, Robbie gathered them up, exposing the manila envelope lying beneath the mess. "Thank you," she muttered, and was about to jam it full of the pictures when she spotted something small inside . . . a memory card.

Interesting. She pulled it out and went on a twenty minute search for the camera, ending up in front of the bureau by the door, the last place in the room to look. "It's got to be here," she muttered as she slid open the top drawer and— "Wow."

Still no camera in sight, but what was spread out in front of her provided more insight into the life of the lady of the house than any picture ever could. "What exactly were you up to, Elizabeth?"

)l(

Paul had just finished up with his list of questions when Robbie came marching down the stairs with a folder in her hand. Wait, no, it was an envelope.

"Okay," he said to the colonel. Hurrying things along, he packed up his papers, not liking the look on Robbie's face as she approached. "We are done here for now, sir."

She dropped the envelope on the coffee table between them, some of its contents spilling out onto the wood surface. Printed photos. Lots of them by the looks of it. "Could you answer a few questions for me, Colonel?" she asked, crossing her arms and glaring down at Shaw.

Inwardly, Paul groaned. He should have known she'd go against his wishes. "I think we've covered everything, Agent Westcott. I can fill you—"

"Why the separate bedrooms?"

What the hell? "I don't think that's any of our business," Paul warned her.

Hard-ass ignored him, her one and only focus on the man sitting in front of her. "How often did you and your wife have sex?"

The words were like slaps—despite there being no physical contact, they still left a sting. Tony Shaw looked dumbfounded.

"Stop." Seething, Paul went to stand, forgetting about the files in his lap. They fell to the ground, and by the time he had picked it all up, she had fired off another.

"It's not a hard question, Colonel—once a week, once a month, national holidays?"

"Agent Westcott!"

She pivoted to face him with her brows pulled down tight.

"No, no, it's okay." The colonel's voice was a little shaky as he stood and told Paul, "I've got nothing to hide. If she has a question, she should ask it." Shifting the focus of his eyes back to Robbie, he added, "Elizabeth didn't like my snoring. She said it kept her awake at night and was affecting her performance at work."

The silence stretched, Robbie's annnd an unspoken prompt hovering between all of them, because as much as Paul hated to admit it, he was now a little curious too.

Shaw drew a hand down his face, his shoulders sagging as if all his energy had been spent. "That part of our marriage was lost somewhere along the way. Don't get me wrong, I loved that woman. She was beautiful and smart and . . . so funny." He smiled, looking like he might share a memory, but it was fleeting, the truth too painful to ignore. "We both had long shifts at work, different interests at home, and just . . . drifted apart. I can't say it was my fault, but I can't blame her either. We didn't make the effort anymore. It was stupid, on both our parts."

With a sigh, the man shrugged. "I don't know how else to explain it." He spread his arms wide, the back of his right hand grazing the tall vase sitting on the table next to him. As the thing did a little wobble, Shaw dove in for the rescue but ended up knocking it to the hardwood instead. Crack.

"Oh, no," he breathed, kneeling down to pick up the pieces. "This was Elizabeth's favorite. She always said I was such a klutz."

Paul thought he heard a muttered "Jesus" coming from Robbie before she rushed over to help.

"It's not too bad. I think it can be glued," she said, her face softening as the colonel wiped his eyes.

Good Lord, the man was crying.

The two of them placed the shattered vase back on the table.

Shaw swiped at his eyes again with an apologetic smile in Paul's direction when he returned to his seat. "Sorry. It's hard. I'm stuck here in this house, surrounded by Elizabeth's things."

"There are companies that can come in, pack up her stuff for you," Robbie offered.

"No"—he shook his head—"it's . . . it's too soon."

With a sad smile Robbie walked to Paul's side and sat her ass on the couch, believe it or not, the tension in the room having decreased about ninety-eight percent. Paul slowly eased himself down beside her, like he was settling next to a rattler and praying it wouldn't strike again.

No such luck.

"Was your wife having an affair, Colonel?" As Paul went to speak, Robbie all but shoved her palm in his face. "I guarantee the prosecutor will ask it," she said to him.

She was right. He nodded.

"I, ah . . . don't think so," Shaw said, eyeballing the pictures. "I don't know."

Robbie didn't miss a trick. Lifting the bottom edge of the envelope, she gave it a little shake, sliding out the rest of the photos and spreading them across the table with her hand. "Did you take these?"

"No. Elizabeth was the picture taker in the family," he said, clearly aware of the fact that the images laid out in front of him were not selfies.

"I see." Robbie frowned, probably due to that brain of hers working overtime. "Has she ever had an affair that you knew of?"

Paul had heard enough. "He just said—"

"Yes."

They both looked to Shaw, who had his eyes shut tight. "Yes," he repeated in a broken whisper. "Back in 2012. It nearly ruined us."

"September 9, 2012," Robbie muttered as she rummaged inside her bag. A pad of paper was selected, and she placed it on her lap to flip through her notes from the night before. "Ah, yes, here it is. Mary Washington Hospital. Elizabeth was brought in that night with a broken nose." She lifted her head, eyebrows raised.

Paul had read that too, but since no complaint had been filed and nothing else had ever been reported, he'd assumed it was irrelevant. She remembered the exact date? The woman had a freaking photographic memory.

"Yes." Shaw got all fidgety, running a hand back and forth along his flattop. "That's correct, and I know where you're going with this." His face became an emotionless mask when he placed his forearms on his knees, leaned forward, and met Robbie's stare dead on. "Yes, I did it. I broke her nose."

END OF CHAPTER SIX

What do you think? Guilty or innocent? 🤷🏻‍♀️ 

Any guesses on what Robbie found in Elizabeth's dresser?

Dedicated to @EmmelinePankhurst9 for her tremendous support and super editing skills. Her sharp eye caught a couple of my boo-boos! Thank you❤️

Speaking of boos, happy Halloween everyone 🎃 

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️💭💭💭💭All votes and comments are greatly appreciated!