“I’m going to talk to our suspect,” Madsen said, his eyes stony, his tone grim. “There’s only one way you’re going in with me—and that’s with your mouth shut.”
Gripping me by the forearm, he said, “Is that clear?”
I was itching to ask Zane my questions, to demand his answers, but I didn’t want to lose this tenuous foothold I had into the investigation. Biting back my disappointment, I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Until we have something more conclusive than hunches and splinters, I’m asking you to keep your suspicions to yourself and let me do the talking. You are here in your capacity as a family friend, and only that.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
The corridor smelled strongly of pine cleaner as we approached Zane’s room. A janitor swabbed the floor at the far end of the hallway, a yellow slip hazard
