White Space Season 2

someone so close could have betrayed him, that he could be so wrong. Jon considered himself a stellar judge of character, and Houser was one of the most sincere men he’d ever met. But still, something seemed off.
    Jon remembered his friend’s pure joy at first finding Emma after she disappeared the first time, but the memory was swallowed by a second thought.
    How did he know where to look? Was he responsible?
    No, he was in California when Emma went missing the first time. He couldn’t have had anything to do with it! Stop thinking stupid shit, Jon.
    The second officer left and Brady entered the room. Jon noticed he wore no gun in his holster. Smart policy — never enter a cell while armed.
    Brady sat and plopped a closed manila folder on the table. “Are you aware why you’re here, Mr. Houser?”
    “You all think I took Emma,” Houser said, his face a stone.
    “Yes,” Brady said. “And did you take her?”
    “I don’t remember,” Houser said.
    “Liar!” Cassidy shouted.
    Officer Henry and Jon both turned to her. For a moment Jon was certain Henry would ask her to leave.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, slapping her hand over her mouth and pressing it tight against her lips.
    If Houser or Brady had heard her, Jon couldn’t tell. They kept talking, their voices bleeding through the observation room speakers.
    “We have video of you leaving the hotel last night with Emma wrapped in a blanket. You put her in your rental and left. Remember any of that? Or dispute it?”
    “I can’t remember a thing,” Houser said, his voice void of emotion. Sedated. Jon had never heard the giant so quiet. He was wringing his hands in front of him on the table, slowly, as if washing them.
    “So you’re saying that wasn’t you?” Brady asked. “In the video? It was another tall, black man with a fake leg?”
    “I don’t know,” he said slowly, nonplussed.
    “What the fuck?” Cassidy said, her voice much lower than the prior shout.
    “Something’s not right,” Jon said.
    “Really?” Cassidy asked. “Dude just murdered our child and you think something’s not right?”
    Our child?
    Jon stared at her, waiting for Cassidy to catch her slip, but she threw her eyes back to the glass, either not realizing her error, or too embarrassed, or maybe angry, to correct it.
    Brady opened the folder and pulled out a stack of photos. He took one from the top and slid it across the table. Houser picked it up, and saw the image from the security footage of himself carrying the blanket.
    He shook his head as if they’d shown him a picture of himself on the moon with a cosmonaut. If Houser had any recall at all, it was missing from his face.
    “Do you remember this, then?” Brady asked as he slid another photo toward Houser.
    This one was of Emma’s dead, naked body lying on the shore. Cassidy gasped. Jon held his calm, studying Houser’s face as it trembled, then cracked.
    Emotion bled through.
    “Emma?” he said, holding the photo as it shook in his hands. “She’s … dead?”
    “Yes,” Brady said.
    “No,” Houser shook his head, slowly at first, then faster and faster until it was moving with fury. His voice turned swollen, and missing emotion poured out it in buckets.
    “No, no, NO!” Houser screamed, hands shaking as he tried pulling free from his cuffs.
    Brady jumped up, startled, but didn’t back up too far, as there seemed little chance Houser could pull an Incredible Hulk and break free from his chains.
    “Mr. Houser, I need you to calm down,” Brady said, his voice soothing.
    “Who did this?” Houser shouted. “Who killed Emma?”
    Cassidy shook her head, “I can’t watch this bullshit,” she said, heading toward the door.
    Officer Henry stepped between her and the exit, as if he could stop her. “I’m going to the lady’s room,” she snapped. “Do I need permission to pee?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” he said, stepping quickly out of her way. “I mean, no, you don’t need p … p … permission. It’s just down … ”
    “I know where it is,” she said, brushing past him.
    Jon watched as Houser’s long howl tore through his soul. Was it the wail of a man in pain, or in emotional duress stemming from guilt? As Jon stared, waiting for Houser to stop sobbing, he thought of Brady’s gun, the one not in his holster.
    Where is it? In his office? Is it locked up?
    He thought of Cassidy, out in the hall, alone.
    Shit.
    Jon turned, “I need to use the bathroom, too,” he said, brushing by