Chapter 71
Louise
Allison Brice enters Interview Room A to a full crowd, looking like someone who is comfortable under that level of scrutiny.
The heels of her beige pumps click on the tile, each step seeming purposeful.
Everything about her is deliberate, curated, expensive.
Her navy sheath dress is structured and fitted just so, the kind of fabric that doesn’t wrinkle no matter how long you sit.
Her hair is immaculate: sleek, shoulder-length, a rich chestnut with subtle caramel undertones that catch the overhead light. The precision feels almost defensive.
Her jewelry is restrained but telling—a delicate gold chain at her throat, diamond studs no larger than a pencil eraser, a slim watch with a mother-of-pearl face.
No wedding ring, Louise notes immediately.
Allison’s posture is perfect. She sits upright but not stiff, legs crossed neatly at the knee, hands folded on the table as if waiting for a quarterly report.
When she looks up, her eyes are calm and unreadable, the kind of cool that comes from years of training herself never to show a crack.
Louise can’t help but think that Allison Brice looks less like a witness in a criminal investigation and more like someone preparing to negotiate a merger.
Louise checks her watch. Allison has been talking for nearly an hour with Louise interjecting questions. “Okay if I summarize what you’ve just said, Mrs. Brice?”
“Of course.”
“Stop me if I’m wrong. The night of the road-rage incident, June eleventh, 2025, does not stand out to you. You were home all night. Finley came home. You went to bed. Nothing special.”
“Correct.”
“The next morning, Finley told you what happened. He explained it as an act of self-defense. He thought this man, Marlow Luckett, was going to kill him, and so he hit him with his SUV.”
“Yes.”
“So you asked Jennifer Harper to look into it. You said you were representing a client so she’d treat it as privileged.”
“Yes.”
“Harp told you that it looked like the case would be closed. Your husband dodged a bullet, so to speak.”
“Yes.”
“But sometime about six weeks ago, maybe late February, you came to learn that Marlow Luckett had accosted your husband and demanded money from him.”
“That’s right.”
“Your advice was don’t pay him. You doubted he had proof. And if he did have proof, like some kind of video or something—your feeling was, if the incident was as Finley described it, you could defend it in court.”
“Correct.”
“And then several weeks ago, Marlow attacked you in your garage and made you wire money to him under duress.”
“Yes.”
“You gave him twenty-five thousand dollars and decided that it was probably worth the peace of mind. And you hoped that would be it.”
“Yes.”
“And on April first, by text message, Finley told you that Marlow was back for more money. And you believed that Finley might be driving that money to Marlow that very night.”
“It sounded like it. You read the text messages.”
“So my question, Mrs. Brice, is why didn’t you just tell us that right away? Like, the day we found his body? Instead, you took the Fifth for yourself and later for your son.”
Allison opens her hands. “Well, first, until you found him, I couldn’t even be sure Fin was deceased. He was being dramatic, feeling sorry for himself, seeking attention, lashing out. I wouldn’t put it past him to disappear for a few days and make me worried sick.
“And then, when you found him…well, yes, I thought it was probably Marlow who killed him. But I didn’t know for sure.
I certainly couldn’t prove it. And more importantly, neither could you.
Not yet. I know police procedure. I knew you were going to track phones and look for license plate hits.
And I know that takes usually a week at least. So?
Put yourself in my shoes. On day one, I say it was Marlow Luckett.
You go to him. He denies it. You can’t arrest him.
You have no probable cause. Not yet. Now I’ve got a pissed-off guy with a history of violence, both physical and sexual, who’s already attacked me once. I wasn’t looking forward to round two.
“But if I let you do your work, I knew eventually it would all come out. You’d find Finley’s car, you’d track all our phones and license plates, you’d read our text messages, and I assumed all of that would lead you to Marlow.
But at that point, when you accosted him, you’d be ready to arrest him.
And he’d be locked up. I wouldn’t have to look over my shoulder every time I opened my garage. ”
“You could’ve given us your phones right away.”
“You don’t need my physical phone to track its cell tower pings.”
“No, but we do to read your text messages.”
“Yes, and then you’d see that my son was furious with his father for being with another woman, and suddenly you lock down on him as a suspect, when he was the furthest thing.
My son could no sooner kill his own father than he could fly a rocket ship to the moon.
And he was traumatized. So the last thing I wanted was for you to home in on him as a suspect and take your eye off the ball.
I wanted you to follow the evidence in a proper investigation without that distraction. ”
Louise flips a hand. “Thanks for giving us no credit as investigators.”
“It was my son. I’m sorry.”
“Let’s move on, then,” says Bruce Ghadiali. “Let’s talk about those pills in Trinity’s trunk.”