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.

“I didn’t tell Gary where you were. I covered for you.”

“You can tell him where I am. I’m not ashamed of what I’m doing, and he’s the one who said it was self-help, which it is.” Christine fed the car gas when the traffic started to move, inching uphill.

“Christine, I really hope you’re not damaging our lawsuit.”

“Nothing I’m doing is going to hurt the lawsuit. Nobody here knows Zachary is our donor. Griff doesn’t even know I’m pregnant.”

“They will when we file suit.”

“How? Zachary’s in prison, Marcus. It’s not like he has a phone, and I don’t know if his email has been set up. They might not even try to contact him.”

“He’ll have Internet. It’s public record. He can find out. Your buddy Griff can find out, too.”

Christine couldn’t help but smile, at the irony. Thank God Griff didn’t have Internet. “I’ll ask Gary how that works.”

“No, don’t. I don’t want you to do anything that interferes with this lawsuit.”

“It wouldn’t interfere with the lawsuit. It would just be asking a question about what could happen. You heard what Gary said, it’s a parallel track. What I already found out about Zachary improved our position. So the waiver argument didn’t pan out, so what? Like Gary said, we haven’t lost anything.”

Marcus groaned. “It’s embarrassing. This whole thing is embarrassing.”