A Good Marriage(33)

“I’ve got to go,” I said. “I’ll see you later tonight.”

I hung up without waiting for him to say goodbye. I gripped my phone and pressed it against my lips.

Suddenly there was a loud crash, followed by a bang. It had come from the back of the house. On the other side of a door at the far end of the living room. I stared toward the closed door.

“Hello?” I called out, heart thumping. Please don’t answer. Please don’t answer. I glanced behind me toward the front door, trying to calculate how fast I could sprint out that way if necessary.

“Hello? Who’s there?” I shouted in as deep and imposing a voice as I could muster. “I’m Zach Grayson’s attorney!”

Only silence in return.

“Hello?”

More silence.

I threw my phone back in my bag and gripped Amanda and Zach’s wedding picture in two hands as I inched toward the door, my back to the bloody stairs.

I took one last deep breath before pushing open the swinging door with my hip, picture frame held high. On the floor of the kitchen was a shattered ceramic bowl, dimes and quarters strewn about nearby. My eyes darted around. But there was no one in sight and, luckily, no closet or other obvious place to hide. The dish could have fallen on its own, I tried to tell myself. Set too close to the edge, maybe on the verge of toppling for days.

But then I spotted the back door. I walked closer, careful not to touch anything, hoping my eyes were playing tricks. The door was definitely ajar, though. Someone had been there just now. Someone who’d knocked the dish over, probably in a rush to get out the back door at the sound of my ringing phone. What would have happened if Sam hadn’t called and I’d surprised them in the kitchen?

My hands trembled as I dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

“I’d like to report a breakin.”

I waited on the front steps for the police to arrive. An endless fifteen minutes later, a patrol car finally pulled up and parked in front of a nearby hydrant. A middle-aged female officer and a younger man got out. He was short and solidly built. She was tough-looking and a head taller, with slicked-back blond hair and imposing shoulders. She walked ahead a few steps, very obviously in charge.

“This your house?” she called up.

“I called to report the breakin,” I said. “But it’s my client’s house. I’m his attorney.”

“Your client, huh?” Her eyebrows bunched. “He inside?”

“No, no,” I said, making the calculated decision not to mention Zach’s current residence in Rikers. “I was here to pick something up for him. I was inside when I heard a noise at the back of the house, in the kitchen.” I motioned over my shoulder to the house. “When I went to check, there was a smashed dish on the floor and the back door was hanging open. Like somebody had just run out. I can show you. I didn’t touch anything.”

“There anything missing?” the female officer asked, peering up at the house without taking a step closer. “Signs of an actual burglary?”

“Nothing obvious—the drawers weren’t opened or anything. Only the broken dish. But like I said, it’s not my house.”

“I thought you said there was an open door.” The female officer leveled a pair of skeptical eyes at me as she made her way up the steps. “Right?”

Sarcasm. Okay, so that answered that question: she knew exactly who my client was and all about Amanda’s murder. Did she think I’d staged this?

“Yeah,” I said, sharply, but just short of rude. OFFICER GILL, her nameplate read, and unfortunately, I did need her help. Staying polite seemed wise. “And the open door.”

“Well, let’s get this show on the road,” the male officer said, clearly oblivious to the tension as he started up the steps. Officer Kemper was his name.

“The blood hasn’t been cleaned up,” I said, glancing at Officer Gill.

She avoided eye contact.

“Blood?” Kemper asked. “Somebody want to clue me in?”

“The Key Party Killing.” I glared at Gill. “I believe that’s what you all are calling it.”

His eyes widened. “Oh, that’s this?”

“Same house,” Gill said, then turned back to me. “Unlock the door, then wait out here. Till we make sure it’s clear.”

I hovered outside the mostly closed front door, listening for a commotion—a shot fired in the dark, officers shouting, a suspect discovered, a struggle. But there was only more silence. Ten minutes later, the door swung open.

“You’re good,” Officer Kemper said, breathing hard from his pass through the house.

“You know, whoever was here probably had something to do with Amanda Grayson’s murder,” I said as I moved toward the door. It wouldn’t change how the officers handled this, but it would be good to have it on the record. “It’s a reasonable assumption.”

“Okay,” he said, but with a tone that said That’s not my department.

We stepped back inside. And there it finally was: the staircase. Clearly a recent addition, it was pale wood with modern steel detailing in the railing and treads. Blood was splattered all over the walls near the bottom—small drops and big drops and a fine spray. Long splashed lines on top of that like a gruesome Jackson Pollock painting. There was an entryway table under a mirror knocked out of place, beneath that a small, stained towel. In the center of the polished blond wood beneath the stairs was a huge circle of smeared blood. As though somebody had made an effort to clean up, only to make matters worse. But it was one nearly black spot to the side of the last step that was most disturbing. I could picture Amanda’s head lying there, the insides pouring out like a cracked egg.