The younger cop hadn’t considered that. No matter how remote, confessions had to be checked out. They drove to the home of Anne Doss in a fashionable gated community. Ms. Doss, dressed impeccably in a chocolate brown pants suit, let them in and led them to a well-appointed sitting room. Big hoop earrings dangled from her ears and her shoulder-length honey blonde hair curled enticingly around her neck. She was by anybody's standards a first -rate hottie. The only thing that detracted from the glamor girl look was that she'd been crying, her soft blue eyes were soaking wet.

The young cop, Tim Lane, spoke up. “We’re not arresting you.”

Anne Doss’s dark eyebrows arched. She said, “Why not? I’m responsible.”

Tim nodded. “We heard you. Problem is, it looks more like suicide.”

Anne Doss looked at him with calm, serious eyes, which she kept dabbing with a flowery handkerchief. “What do I have to say? If it wasn’t for me, she’d be alive.”

“Tell us why you believe that.”

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