Page 7

Friday

I must have fallen asleep, because suddenly it’s morning. My phone alarm plays its nameless wake-up tune while I stagger out of bed.

Downstairs, I stand in the kitchen sipping coffee, watching Natalie run back and forth, gathering all her stuff and trying not to be late for school. I feel half alive.

“Are you going to be okay?” my daughter asks, hopping up and down as she tugs on a shoe.

“I’ll be fine,” I say sluggishly.

After one more worried glance, she leaves. I let the dog out to do her business in our little fenced-in backyard, then I drag myself into the bathroom for a shower.

My clothes from last night are on the bathroom floor. There’s blood on my socks. With a shudder, I carry my clothes to the utility closet and heave them into the washer, adding a double pour of detergent. I know to put the water on the cold-water setting for blood stains, but I freeze for a moment when I imagine Tim’s blood swirling down the drain.

Back in the bathroom, I lock the door. I’ve showered alone in this house thousands of times, but this is the first time I feel vulnerable. The shower is loud. Anyone could sneak in, and I’d never hear it. I’ve seen Psycho .

So it’s a quick shower, which is just as well, because I think I remember the police detective saying that she’d come by at eight thirty. If that’s okay with you .

As if I’d been in any shape to protest.

In the kitchen, I start more coffee and call Beatrice.

“Hey, girlie!” she whispers into her phone. “Good morning.”

“Why are you whispering?” I ask, and then I realize there must be a man there with her. “Oh wow. Somebody had a fun night.”

“What can I say? It was a good party. What’s up with you?”

“Well...” I don’t even know how to explain. “Last night I walked past the mansion. I saw Tim’s car.”

“ Your Tim?”

“Is there another Tim?” I ask tiredly. “But Beatrice. He was...” I swallow. “He was dead. In the car.”

“ What? ” she gasps. “Are you kidding me right now?”

“No. I think he killed himself.”

There’s silence on the line for a long moment. “Oh God, Rowan. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say reflexively. “I called 911 and the police came and handled it. I have to talk to them again this morning.”

“Yikes,” she says again. “Want me to come over?”

“No, I’m all right.”

I’m touched by the offer. Beatrice and I are friends at work, mostly because we both report to the same aggravating billionaire. But we’re not the kind of friends who swing by to make tea for each other when things get rough. “I’ll be late, though. The police tape is probably still up. I had meetings planned. Can you make excuses to the electrician? That was my nine o’clock.”

“Of course. Anything.”

“Thank you.”

“Call me when you know what your day will look like, okay?” she says. “Or call me if you’re not coming in.”

“Okay. Yeah. I think I’m coming in.” Aren’t I? What are the rules? I’ve never found my ex-boyfriend dead before.

“All right,” she says gently. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Thanks. I mean it.”

I end the call, then force down a cup of yogurt. When a knock sounds on the front door, Lickie gives a single woof of warning, and I give her the side-eye. What would Lickie actually do if someone broke a window and came into the house? This breed of dog has a strong bite. They’re often used for police work. But ours is the most docile dog on the planet.

Plus, I trained her not to bark at visitors. Maybe that was a mistake.

Gathering myself, I open the door to find Detective Riley blinking back at me. Her hair is damp, as if she did a hasty job with the hairdryer, too.

“You look almost as tired as I am. Don’t they let you go home?”

“It depends.” She gives me a droopy smile.

“Coffee?”

“I would love some.”

I make myself busy pouring our mugs and offering her milk and sugar. I dust toast crumbs and Natalie’s crumpled napkin off the table.

I feel strangely like I’m living in two universes—the one where I’m supposed to feel ashamed of my shitty housekeeping, and the one where Tim shot himself to death in his car last night.

We sit down. I take a bracing sip, and Detective Riley does the same across from me. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?” she asks, taking out her phone.

“Um...” I do kind of mind, because that feels invasive. But I don’t want to get in the way of police work. “No, it’s fine.”

“Thank you. I’ve been tasked with the job of retracing the last days before Tim’s death.”

“Okay. I’ll help however I can. But I hadn’t talked to him in several days.”

She nods easily. “Since he’d ended things between the two of you? Was it ugly?”

I swallow hard. “It was hurtful. But not ugly. He just cut me off. Didn’t even give me a reason.”

She rests her chin on her hand. “How did he tell you? Phone call? Text?”

“Text. Monday night. It was very abrupt. We’d had dinner plans.” I pluck my phone off the table, open my texts, and show her Tim’s.

She reads the screen and winces. “Okay, wow. That’s curt. And you didn’t respond?”

“I called him. I’m too old to break up by text.”

She gives me a feeble smile. “And did he answer?”

I shake my head.

“That’s rough,” she says gently. “So when was the last time you saw him in person? Besides last night.”

Last night . Tears threaten again. “Um, the Friday before that. We had dinner and then hung out in his car.”

“And where did all that take place?”

“Dinner at David’s Restaurant.” I feel sweat gather under my arms. “And then we sat in front of the mansion, actually.”

“The same mansion?” she clarifies.

“Yes. We used to park on the property a lot. I work there, so it was me who told him that it’s no trouble to park there after hours.”

She blinks. “All right. We’d wondered why his car was there. It’s not public property.”

“I’d wondered, too,” I admit. “Because I’d assumed he’d only go there with me.” I absolutely do not add that I’d noted his presence by way of an app, though. She doesn’t need to know that.

“So you two parked there before?” she asks. “Did this happen a lot?”

“Maybe... six or seven times, if I had to guess. We dated throughout the spring. On chilly nights, we’d sometimes sit in his car after dinner. He was staying with his parents, and he’d never invited me over there. And I rarely invited him here.” I indicate my kitchen. “I hadn’t introduced my daughter to him yet. I assumed I would eventually, though.”

“But did he ever visit your home?”

“A few times, yes.”

“How many is a few?”

It’s a struggle not to sound irritated at the personal question. “Three? Four?”

The first time Tim came over was when Natalie went on a class trip to Boston. It was understood that he would stay the night, and I’d been anxious beforehand. It was hard to show my almost-forty body—with its stretch marks—to someone new. I was out of practice.

After that, he came over twice more for sex.

Luckily, Detective Riley changes the subject. “Where did you two meet?”

I tell her the story about the news article and his coffee-shop intro duction. “After we met, he emailed the next day and invited me out for dinner. We dated for a couple of months.”

“Was it serious?”

“Obviously not to him,” I point out.

“But what did you think?”

I struggle for words that don’t sound egomaniacal. “I thought we had a long future of more of the same. He seemed really into it. More than me, if I’m honest. But I assumed we enjoyed each other’s company enough to keep it up.”

“You weren’t in love with him?” she asks softly.

“Not yet. No.” I shake my head. “But he was a great guy, and I really enjoyed dating him.”

“And how did you feel when he ended it?”

“Angry,” I admit. “And very embarrassed. It made me remember why I don’t date.”

She gives me a quiet smile. “Sing it, sister. So that was it? No further contact?”

“No. He didn’t answer my calls. And maybe it’s for the best. You shouldn’t have to beg someone to pay attention.” I tried that once fifteen years ago. It didn’t go well.

Another wince from the detective. She’s younger than I am. Early thirties, I guess. “I’m sorry.”

I shake my head. “I’ll be fine. I can’t quite get my head around him dying. It doesn’t seem real.”

“Tell me about your job. Do you go to the mansion every day? Weekdays?”

“Almost every weekday for the last six months. Unless I have back-to-back off-site meetings. It’s going to take another year and a half before the project is done.”

She scribbles some notes. “Who’s your employer? Or do you work for yourself?”

“I work for the Wincott Foundation, on a two-year contract.”

Her pen pauses. “And how did that come about?”

“Well, I used to work for a big architectural firm. But I wanted out.”

“How come?” she asks.

“Um...” It feels like a lifetime ago now. “I didn’t like the power structure. The firm was owned by two brothers. I was the only female architect on the team, and they always tried to give me the least interesting work. Things like kitchen renovations, because I had ‘a feel for the domestic.’ ”

She makes a sympathetic face.

“So I started to think about going off on my own. And when Hank Wincott started interviewing architects for the mansion, I went after that job hard. Hank and I went to high school together.”

“That’s a lucky leg up,” she says, lifting her gaze to mine.

“Well, it didn’t hurt. When I told him I wanted to leave my firm and go out on my own, Hank was willing to consider me for the project. He asked me to come on board as an employee until the mansion is finished. I liked the idea of having a steady paycheck for two more years, before I launch my own firm. And I’m on the Wincott Foundation’s health insurance now.”

More scribbling. Unlike Tim, she doesn’t use Moleskines and fountain pens. Her notebook is a cheap spiral version. “Do you think there’s any chance that Tim expected to run into you at the mansion last night?” she asks.

“No way. The hour was strange, and we weren’t in contact.”

Maybe I say this a little too forcefully, but I’m not going to tell her that I knew he was there. That will just make me sound crazy.

“Are you sure?” she presses. “He went to your place of work, which is only a few blocks from your home. He didn’t live in this neighborhood, so it seems like a strange location to choose if he didn’t want to see you.”

I hold out both hands and shrug. “If I’d known how to read his mind, I wouldn’t have been so surprised when he broke up with me.”

“And you?” she asks. “Did you expect to run into him?”

“No.” My pulse whooshes in my ears, and it’s suddenly difficult to control the muscles in my face. “But there he was.”

She watches me carefully. “And you’re certain the two of you didn’t have any more contact? No calls? No emails? No other apps?”

I shake my head, but my good-girl complex is burning me up inside. No other apps?

“Okay, please tell me everything about your walk to the mansion last night. Did you walk from here?”

“Yes.”

“What time was it?”

I consider the question. “After eight. It was getting dark, but it wasn’t dark just yet.”

“What route did you walk?” She pushes her notebook toward me on the table. “Can you show me?”

As I draw the streets and an outline of the mansion, her eyes widen. “Lord, you have an eye.”

“I’m an architect. Drawing is literally my job. This was my path...” I tap the pen on the page and give her a meticulous description of my route.

“Wonderful. Now, did you see anyone else nearby?”

“No. I mean—there are always a few people out walking dogs in the neighborhood. But I didn’t pass anyone on the sidewalk near the mansion.”

She nods thoughtfully. “And did you hear any strange sounds?”

“You mean like a gunshot? No.”

“Anything,” she says.

I shake my head. “It was as quiet as ever.”

Her face is impassive, but her fingers worry the edge of the table. “When you saw his car, what did you notice about it?”

“At first nothing seemed weird. I approached from the passenger side”—I indicate my path with a tap on the paper—“and I did wonder if there was another person in the car with him...”

“Like a date?” she asks.

“Yeah.” I take a breath. “That’s exactly what I was thinking. But I didn’t see anyone in that seat. Then, as I passed the car, I looked over my shoulder. I saw the driver’s door was open, so I doubled back.”

“It was open?” She sits up just a little bit straighter. “Like, how far?”

I use my hands to indicate a couple of inches. “It looked like maybe someone had forgotten to close it all the way. So I walked Lickie over, thinking I’d close it for him. Unless he was there in the car. And then I would have said hi.”

“Tell me exactly what you saw.”

I try, but it’s rough going. I explain how the light was bad, and I didn’t understand that I was looking at blood on the asphalt. “I got a bad feeling, but it just didn’t seem real, until he rolled out of the car. His... face . I only saw it for a second.” The coffee in my stomach turns into paint thinner. “I’d just never seen anything like that before.”

“It’s upsetting,” she says quietly.

“Upsetting doesn’t even cover it.”

“Did you see the gun?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“It didn’t roll out of the car with him?”

“Not that I noticed.”

“Then you touched him,” she prompts.

“Yes. I grabbed his shoulder. He felt solid, I thought. Like normal. And I had this weird idea that maybe he was okay. So I said his name and I rolled him toward me a little. And...”

Bile rises up in my throat. I gag and have to swallow it down.

Detective Riley gets up and finds a glass in my cupboard. She fills it with water and brings it to me.

I accept it wordlessly and drink some. It helps a little.

“Okay, what about the jogger?” she asks. “How much time passed between Tim rolling out onto the ground, and the jogger reaching you?”

“Um...” I try to think. “Not long at all. Less than a minute? I couldn’t scream right away. But when I did, the jogger came pretty fast.”

She asks me some more befuddling questions. Which direction did the jogger come from? Did the jogger say anything? Had I ever seen him before?

I don’t remember much, and I feel like I’m failing a test. “Why are you so interested in the jogger?”

She folds her hands and goes quiet. As if she’s trying to decide how much to share. “There was no gun found at the scene, Rowan. And we need to know where it went.”