Mark didn’t go to work the next day. His cousin was interrogated again. Oliver Snow was a quirky fellow, joking with the cops at the station, slouching in his chair with a grin on his handsome face, dark hair falling over piercing brown eyes, tattooed arms slung over the sides of the chair Detective Borak offered him.
“I notice your eyes are glazed.” Oliver smirked at the detective. “Have you been eating donuts?”
Then he grew serious.
“That Robertson is going to screw me, man,” he said as the station hummed around the detective’s office. “He got me coming back here with his stories of Aunt Clarise and me the night before she died. That I didn’t go home the next day. That it was me in the cab with her. You know that isn’t right.”
Detective Hussein sucked on a mint. He took notes. “We ha
