“I just know,” Mr. Adams said, his voice hoarse and hollow. “He—he couldn’t have.” His glassy, red-rimmed eyes met mine. They were filled with absolute conviction. He wasn’t guessing. He knew the guy was innocent.

Had he killed his own daughter? It was hard to miss the guilt wafting off him. But there was no mistaking the grief, either. If he did kill her, he felt really bad about it.

Or he and the boyfriend had been very close. They would have to have been for him to be so certain. And I couldn’t imagine a father, especially one so loving, could do what they did to Emery Adams. The inside of her car had literally been painted with her blood. Whatever happened, Emery’s death had been a very violent affair.

“We went to college together,” Parker said. “I knew him well. He could never have done this. Never.”

He knew him in college? That was the best he had? He was a prosecutor. Surely he knew how little weight that held.

“I thought the police had yet to find her body,” I said. “Why are they so sure she was murdered?”

“The amount of blood found in the car,” Parker said. “There’s simply no way she could’ve survived the attack.”

“And all of it was hers?”

“Every drop,” Mr. Adams said, his voice cracking. “Every precious drop.” The pain that welled up inside him stole my breath. It was so apparent that even the Asian woman stopped trying to hit my lamp and looked at him. He sobbed into a handkerchief, and I couldn’t stop the welling of tears if I’d superglued my tear ducts shut.

I took a deep breath as Parker placed a hand on Mr. Adams’s shoulder. I had no idea the man had a tender bone in his body.

“There was nobody better,” Mr. Adams said. “Not in this whole world. She was everything to me. But I—I wasn’t the best father. She deserved so much better.”

He broke down again, his shoulders shaking so hard I thought he’d shatter. We gave him a moment, but when he couldn’t stop, he stood and strode out of my office, not stopping until he was outside on the front balcony.

It would give me a chance to grill Parker in a less delicate manner.

I leaned forward. “Why are you here, Parker?” I said, my tone accusing.

He let out a long, resigned sigh. “Because you get the job done, Davidson. No matter what I think about you or your methods or your … habits—”

What the hell?

“—you do what you set out to do. You prove people innocent when they are destined for the needle. You see evidence where no one else does. You see the good when others only see the bad. I need you on Lyle’s team. He didn’t do it, but the evidence against him would strongly suggest otherwise.”

He handed me the case file, and even though I didn’t trust him as far as I could drive him down a golf course with my dad’s nine iron, he presented a good argument. Then again, he was a prosecutor vying for the DA’s corner office. And he was just young and ambitious enough to get it. Someday.

“Where’s Lyle now?”

He relaxed, though just a tad. “They’re holding him for questioning.”

I perused the folder he gave me. “They must have something good. They wouldn’t have arrested him without a body unless they were convinced there was a murder and that he did it.”

“I know. It’s unprecedented. But, just between you and me, they’re hoping for a plea bargain. A confession is just what this case needs.”

“Will they get one?”

He glared up at me. “No, Davidson, they won’t.”

Fair enough. “Did you know Emery Adams?”

He shook his head. “No. I’d never met her, but from what I understand, she was a very good person.” He dropped his gaze, his expression hard. “She didn’t deserve this.” When I said nothing, he refocused on me and continued, “Look, I know we don’t exactly get along, but everyone is right about you.”

“Everyone?” I asked, knowing precisely what he was going to say.

“You solve crimes. You close cases.”

“That I do,” I agreed, putting the pen down and bracing myself. The woman finally gave up on the lamp and noticed me. She gazed longingly. Lovingly. Wanting to go home. Wanting to see her family again. I wanted that for her, too. I really did. Just not at that precise moment. But she was going to cross, and she was going to cross now, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I stood and walked around my desk to buy myself a few seconds. “Who’s prosecuting?”