Amelia closed her eyes.
A missing tape recorder would not prove innocence by itself. It might have been lost, thrown away, never turned on. But if Martin Keller had recorded something that night, and if someone removed it before police arrived, then the original crime scene had been incomplete from the beginning.
That evening, Amelia drove to the old Keller house.
It had been sold twice since the murder. The current owner, a school librarian named Mr. Bell, answered the door wearing reading glasses and an expression of deep concern.
“I saw the news,” he said before Amelia could explain. “You’re here about the man they almost executed.”
“Yes.”
He opened the door wider. “Come in.”
The house smelled of lemon polish and old wood. Amelia walked through it carefully, imagining the layout from photographs she had studied for months. The kitchen had been repainted, the cabinets replaced, the floor redone.
