Justin Westwood opened his eyes. He walked to the window, the one that had the fire escape outside. He fiddled with the latch, opened the window, and looked at the ledge. Then he closed the window, flipped the latch so it was locked.
Then he looked at the chief of the East End Harbor Police Department, such as it was.
"It's an accident," Westwood said. "Has to be an accident. There's no other explanation."
2
Justin was in Duffy's again, sitting at the bar. It was the third night in a row he'd planted himself there. He was almost finished with his third Pete's Wicked Ale and was thinking about polishing it off with a scotch. He wavered. Right now he had a pleasant buzz, was reasonably relaxed. The scotch would put him over the line. Well, the one scotch wouldn't, but once he started he knew he'd have more than one. Tonight he'd have three or four. Or five. Which was what he'd had the night before. And the night before that. He watched a young woman sitting in one of the four booths and for a moment he thought it was Susanna Morgan. Then he realized that it couldn't be and decided he wanted that scotch.
Donnie, the bartender, brought the shot glass over, with some water on the side. Westwood took a sip and enjoyed the burn as it went down his throat and into his stomach. It warmed him instantly and he polished off the rest of it in one more gulp, signaled for another even as his head was tilted back, drinking. When he'd finished the second one, the buzz wasn't quite as pleasant. It was more of a hum and the hum was saying to him the same thing it had been saying ever since he'd examined Susanna's body: Stay away from it. Don't touch this one. Just stay away.
After the third scotch, he realized he wasn't getting drunk. But the hum was getting stronger. The fact was, it had been getting stronger with each passing hour.
Leave it alone, it was saying.
You know better.
Just leave it alone.
It had been saying that for three days now.
Justin nodded to himself, nodded to the hum, agreeing with it. Knowing he should listen to it. Knowing that he had to listen to it.
Then he put down money for his tab, got up from the bar, and headed to the door. When he was out on the street, the hum kept telling him to go home. It was an easy walk, maybe half a mile. The previous two nights he'd paid attention and followed instructions. But now he found himself walking toward Main Street and the center of town. He found himself walking back to Susanna Morgan's apartment.
When he got there, when he stood in front of the two-story building looking up at the top floor where the girl had died, he thought, What the fuck am I doing?
Then he walked around back to the alley, went to the building next door, the one with the fabric shop in the front, and he jumped up so he could grab hold of the bottom rung of the building's fire escape. He pulled it down so he could step on it comfortably, then he began to climb up to the roof, telling himself it was no problem, he knew how far to take it, he was just going to play his hunch, then he was going to leave it alone.
Halfway up, he stopped. Told himself he'd already gone too far. If he went any farther he'd get sucked in, might never be able to disentangle himself. His right foot stepped down one rung lower, but his left foot hovered in the air. He muttered "Shit" out loud. Then, telling himself nothing, doing his best not to think at all, he put his left foot back on the fire escape and began climbing up to the top. Westwood stood on the roof for a few moments, taking in the scene. He wasn't trying to focus on anything in particular, just wanted to get a feel for his general impressions. He slowly turned his head, taking in the shadows and the view of the town. He listened, didn't hear much. One bird. Then another, answering. From somewhere, probably several blocks away, the steady drone of a car engine.
He didn't exactly see or hear the girl. But he did feel her presence. When he turned to the corner of the roof, spotted her sitting there, then took several steps closer and was able to see the expression on her face, he realized that what he had felt was her fear.
"Don't hurt me," she said. Her voice didn't quiver, which surprised him. It was steady and strong, if extremely soft.
He held up his hands, to show he meant no harm. "I'm a policeman," he said, making his voice match her hoarse whisper. "I'm not going to hurt you." He flashed his ID, peered in closer at her, tried to smile in as friendly a manner as he could muster, and said, "You're the yoga teacher. I can't remember your name. I'm Justin Westwood. We talked once, remember? You had the guy who kept exposing himself outside your class."
She didn't say anything but she nodded slowly. Justin said, "You live in this building?" When she nodded again, he said, "The other apartment? The other half from Susanna?" and once again her head moved almost imperceptibly up and down.
"I'm just looking around," he told her now, keeping his tone gentle. "Nothing serious. Just to satisfy my own curiosity. I'm going to go down Susanna's fire escape, just for a minute. Will you wait here for me until I get back?"
The woman nodded. Westwood thought about saying something else-she seemed to need more reassurance-but he didn't know what else he could say, so he walked across the flat roof until he got to the fire escape that led to Susanna Morgan's apartment. He stepped down a few rungs. When his eyes were level with the ledge of the roof, he stopped, squinted, looking for something, then resumed his descent. When he got to the landing outside the bedroom, he examined the exterior wall and the outer windowsill. He scratched his cheek and climbed back up to the roof, expecting the woman he'd left there to be gone. But she was right where he'd left her. Sitting cross-legged in the corner. He walked closer to her, putting the smile back on his face and saying, "See? Nothing to worry about."
"I don't want to get hurt," she said when he was a few feet away from her.
"I told you." He was out of practice at being sincere, but he did his best to keep his body language as nonthreatening as possible. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"I have a daughter," she said. "A little daughter. She's seven years old."
"That's nice," he told her. "What's her name?"
She didn't answer him. It was as if she hadn't heard him. It was as if she was listening instead to some kind of voice within her.
"I saw something," she finally said.
"Something about what?" He tried to keep his voice level but he could hear his heart pumping and he could feel his blood racing through his body. Suddenly, he knew he should have listened to that damn hum, should have stayed the hell off this roof. What did he think was going to happen by coming here? Nothing good, that's what. Nothing remotely good could possibly come from this.
"I know why you're here," she said. "I know what you're looking for."
Nothing remotely fucking good.
"You don't have to tell me," he said. "You don't have to tell anybody if you don't want to."
"I saw something."
And if you tell me, I'll have to do something about it. It won't just be pretend any longer. I'll have to do something.
"Don't tell me," he said again, and he was surprised at how desperate his voice sounded. "Please. Don't tell me what you saw."
"I have a daughter," she said. "And I'm afraid."
Please… "But I saw Susanna. Here on the roof."
Don't…
"She didn't trip and fall like everyone says," the woman said now. She still hadn't moved. She still had her legs crossed and she was breathing in and out, slowly and steadily, in an easy, perfect rhythm.
Don't tell me…
"He killed her," she said, her voice still firm and steady. "He murdered her. And I saw it."