Christine left the living room and walked into the bedroom, but she stopped at the doorway, not wanting to invade Kent’s privacy more than necessary. She took a picture of a bedroom that was as neat as the rest of the house, with a carefully made bed and a bare wooden chair that contained a stack of freshly folded and laundered clothes. A pair of pink flip-flops sat side by side in front of the bed, where they had been taken off, presumably.
Christine left the bedroom, heading back toward the kitchen, mulling it over. If Kent usually had her last cigarette around midnight, and the police had estimated that the time of death was about that time, it made sense to think that Mrs. Kent fell after she smoked her last cigarette or while she was smoking. Then Christine realized something didn’t jibe.
Kent’s flip-flops were beside her bed, as if she had just taken them off. So why did she take them off before she went outside for her cigarette? The landing of the stairwell was wood, and most people would have been wary of splinters, which meant that Kent would’ve kept her flip-flops on. But Dominic had said that she was barefoot when he found her at the foot of the stairs.
Christine tested her theory by viewing it the opposite way. Kent could’ve gone outside barefoot, and it fit with her profile, too. It’s not as if Kent were so conventional; her arms were covered with tattoos. She liked the Ramones. So the fact that she was outside barefoot probably didn’t mean anything.
Christine walked to the kitchen, opened the door, and was just about to leave when her gaze fell on the pack of cigarettes with the lighter, sitting on the counter by the door. Christine thought about it a moment, trying to reconstruct what happened that night. Kent presumably fell during or after her last cigarette of the night. So why would her lighter still be inside, on top of her pack of cigarettes?
Christine considered it, wondering. The landlord’s rule was, no smoking in the apartments. So Kent had gone outside to smoke. But people who smoked outside didn’t light up inside, did they? Christine wasn’t a smoker, but her late mother-in-law had been and her mother-in-law hadn’t smoked in her house. Her mother-in-law kept her cigarettes and lighter by the door, and her smoking ritual was the same every time; her mother-in-law pulled a cigarette from the pack, then stepped outside with her lighter. Her mother-in-law lit up the cigarette outside, smoked it, came back inside, and put the lighter back on top of the cigarette pack.
Christine blinked, eyeing the cigarette pack and the lighter. She considered the darker possibilities, the one she had come here to explore, that Kent’s death hadn’t been an accident, then tried to reconstruct an alternate scenario. If Kent wasn’t killed while she was outside smoking, then there had to be some reason for her to be outside.
Christine thought about it. Perhaps Kent had already gone to bed, or was just about to, and had taken off her flip-flops but not her clothes. What if there was a knock at the door and she was going to answer it, but it had been the serial killer, coming to silence her because she had seen him go up Robinbrecht’s staircase? What if the serial killer had entered as soon as she opened the door, pushed her inside, and silently broken her neck?
Christine realized that that scenario made perfect sense, and it also answered the question that had been bothering her, why hadn’t the neighbors heard anything? Some of the neighbors had been asleep or on Ambien, but not all of them. Somebody should’ve heard something when Kent slipped and fell down the stairs; a cry for help, an exclamation, profanity, or the horrible sound of someone falling down a wooden stairwell, a bumping as she rolled down the stairs.
Christine felt the realization dawn on her. No one heard that because none of that happened. The killer could have killed Kent in her kitchen, then carried her quickly down the stairs, placed her at the bottom, and left by the alley, with nobody seeing him. Christine felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. She realized that the alternative scenario was completely possible, and it reconciled with what she had learned tonight from the neighbors.
She took one last look around the kitchen, then headed for the door.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Christine called Griff as she walked back to her car, her head swimming with what she had learned at Kent’s apartment. She was feeling more right about her suspicions than ever and couldn’t wait to talk it over with him. She listened to the phone ring again and again, then the ringing stopped. No voicemail or message machine kicked in. She’d have to go back to the office to talk to him.
She reached her car, chirped it unlocked, climbed inside, and started the engine and the AC. She felt a wave of fatigue and hunger but ignored them, steering out of the space. She had to go to the bathroom, but it wouldn’t take long to get to Griff’s. She plugged the address into GPS because West Chester had so many one-way streets, then she pulled out of the space, went straight, then turned right, following the directions.
Her phone started ringing on the dashboard, presumably Griff calling back, and she answered right away. “Griff, you’re not going to believe this!” she said, but when she glanced at the screen, it wasn’t Griff but Marcus.
“It’s your husband, remember me?” he asked, bristling.
“Sorry.” Christine kept calm.
“What is it that Griff isn’t going to believe?” Marcus asked, his sarcasm undisguised.
“If you really want to know, I think I figured out that there was someone other than Zachary who was seen at the apartment and that a witness-”
“Spare me, Nancy Drew. Tell it to Zachary.”
“Fine.” Christine didn’t want to fight with him. She headed uphill, past the pretty row houses. Runners ran by, now that the humidity had dissipated, and residents were out watering their plantings. Lights glowed from within the mullioned windows, and the sky darkened to a soft shade of periwinkle.
“Have you seen Zachary?”
“No.” Christine ignored his tone. “How are you?”
“I’m fine. When are you coming home?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll keep you posted. I’m fine, you don’t have anything to worry about, and I’m doing something that matters to me.”
“What are you doing?”
“Come down and find out.”
Marcus scoffed. “So you won’t tell me what you’re doing and you won’t tell me when you’re coming home?”
“Marcus, if you really want to know what I’m doing, please, get in the car and come down. I’m staying at the Warner Hotel in town.”
“No, I have work.”
“You can take a few days off, and you know it.”
“What you’re doing is wrong. I’m not buying in.”
“Then we agree to disagree.” Christine swallowed hard. Part of her wondered if this counted as separation. It felt like one. They’d never been at such odds. She thought of what Marcus had said in Gary’s office. This is ruining our marriage.
“I’m calling because Gary spoke with Homestead, and they won’t confirm or deny that Jeffcoat is our donor without our filing suit. They aren’t buying our waiver argument, at least not yet.”
“So now what happens?” Christine took a left turn and braked behind a line of other cars, a long line of red stoplights.
“Gary’s going to file the papers and show Homestead we mean business. He’s hoping that will make them more inclined to settle.”
“Good.” Christine glanced around, stalled in traffic. She had left the residential neighborhood, and busy restaurants lined the street.