She tried not to think about everything Debbie might’ve touched on her way inside — the front door handle, the counter, who knew what else — and the evidence she might’ve destroyed by doing so. Instead, she walked over to the counter and sat on a stool directly in front of Debbie. “You okay?” Debbie dabbed at her eyes one more time before nodding. “Tell me what else happened last night,” she said. “Please.” Joanne knew she shouldn’t, that she should first question Debbie about what had happened here at the café so that her memory wouldn’t be compromised. She would undoubtedly interpret what happened here at the café differently once she learned about the murder. Maybe only in some small, unimportant ways, but maybe in some major ones. It was a mistake, and Joanne knew it, but she decided to tell Debbie what she wanted to know. The woman had suffered so much over the years, and Joanne couldn’t bring herself to add to that suffering, even if only for a few moments.
