For several seconds, he stood motionless.
I covered my mouth.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
"He was sick," I whispered.
Nathan nodded.
"He was."
"But he drove home?"
"Yes."
I stared at the screen.
Thomas had come home around three that morning.
I remembered waking briefly when he climbed into bed.
I had asked where he'd been.
He had whispered that he'd needed some air.
I hadn't questioned him.
The next afternoon, he collapsed in our living room.
Three days later, he was dead.
My chest tightened.
"Nathan, do you think someone hurt him?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, "I think there's a reason he was collecting evidence."
I looked at the frozen image of the unknown man.
"Can you identify him?"
Nathan hesitated.
"We're trying."
Something about his hesitation bothered me.
"Do you know who it is?"
He looked away.
"Nathan."
He finally met my eyes.
"I have a suspicion."
