Christine felt tears come to her eyes and didn’t know who they were for, whether they were for Gail, Zachary, Griff, her baby, or Marcus. She couldn’t help but feel that all of them were bound together somehow, tangled up in some flesh-and-blood ball, as if their veins, arteries, nerves, and DNA were wound around each other like so many rubber bands, forming a hard core that could never be torn apart, much less untangled.

Christine wiped her eyes, put the photos away, and sealed them inside the envelope. A wave of exhaustion and despair swept over her, and she set the envelope on the night table, then lay back on the stacked pillows, still in the cottony cocoon of her bathrobe. She had to keep it together, and it was time to get some sleep. She closed her eyes, tried to clear her mind, and let herself drift into sleep.

Because she knew it was going to get worse, before it got better.

Chapter Forty-one

Christine followed Detective Wallace, ducking under the yellow caution tape and walking down the alley beside Gail Robinbrecht’s house. On the way, she snapped photos with her phone, trying to ignore the tension in her stomach. She hadn’t slept well and she’d already barfed up her breakfast, but she’d showered and changed into a fresh denim shirtdress. It had a skinny leather belt, and for the first time, she’d had to move to an extra hole, a fact she noted with mixed emotions. She’d been waiting for her baby bump, but she felt differently now. She was about to see the aftermath of a murder that her baby’s father might have committed.

Detective Wallace stopped at the end of the alley, waiting for her. He was in his forties, with short dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses, and he made a tall, trim, and professional appearance in a black polo shirt with the sewn-in gold emblem of the Chester County Detectives, which he had on with Dockers and loafers. He gestured at Gail Robinbrecht’s wooden stairs, which Christine had only seen from a distance. “Here we go. It’s upstairs.”

“Thanks.”

“Follow me.” Detective Wallace ascended the stairway, she climbed behind him, snapping photos of the backyard, which was also paved with concrete, lined on one side with trash and recycling bins, and bordered by the same wooden privacy fence as Linda Kent’s backyard. It even had the same sign on the back gate, COBBLESTONE PROPERTY MANAGEMENT, and Christine gathered that the duplexes managed by the company would be generally uniform.

Detective Wallace asked, when they reached the top landing, “Before we enter the scene, did Griff tell you the rules?”

“No. Do you know Griff?”

“Everybody knows Griff. He’s an institution.” Detective Wallace smiled as he bent over and unlocked a square metal container with the county seal. “Can’t say I care for his clients, but he does a lot of good for the department. He’s the single biggest donor to the Widow & Orphans Fund. He gives to PAL, too. We’d do anything for him. How do you think you got in here so fast?”

“He has money?” Christine asked, surprised to think of Griff’s sad little bedroom behind his office.

“He must be worth a fortune, but he gives it all away.” Detective Wallace reached inside the metal container. “My wife’s a librarian, and he gives them money, too. He just paid to renovate the reading room for the kids. He doesn’t make a big deal about it. He didn’t want his name on the reading room. They offered, too.”

“Where does his money come from? Not from his family, I didn’t get that impression.”

“No, he’s self-made, in commercial real estate. He owns the building his office is in.”

“You mean he rents it to that other law firm?” Christine had thought it was the other way around.

“Yes. He owns a lot of office buildings in West Chester.” Detective Wallace held a cardboard box of blue booties, tugged two from the box, and offered them to Christine. “Please put these on your shoes.”

“Okay, thanks.” Christine took the booties and slipped them over her espadrilles, thinking about Griff. The man was a paradox, that much was sure. Suddenly her cell phone began ringing in her hand, and she checked the screen. It was Marcus, so she didn’t get it. “Sorry.”

“You need to wear gloves, too.” Detective Wallace returned to the box. “Are you allergic to latex?”

“No.”

“Here.” Detective Wallace handed her two purple gloves, and Christine put her phone in her purse and tugged them on.

“Thanks.”

“Here are the rules. Please don’t touch anything inside.” Detective Wallace spoke as he gloved his hands. “No smoking or gum chewing. You may take as many pictures as you want. You may not make or receive cell-phone calls or texts.” Detective Wallace went back into the metal box and pulled out a clipboard with a pen attached. “Please walk only in the areas I designate. You’re entitled to see any rooms you wish, but you may not contaminate or disrupt anything. The scene hasn’t been released yet, so it’s still an active crime scene.”

“When will it be released?”

“That, I don’t know. It’s not up to me.” Detective Wallace made a note on the clipboard, which appeared to be a log of visitors to the scene.

“Who’s been here already?” Christine peeked at the log, trying to read it. “Did the FBI come, or detectives from Maryland and Virginia?”

“That’s police information.” Detective Wallace put the clipboard back in the metal box, then pulled a key from his pocket, opened the screen door, and unlocked the wooden door. “If you have any questions, either you or Griff can call the district attorney. We’re not meant to answer questions on these walk-throughs.”

“Okay.” Christine took the opportunity to look across the way at Linda Kent’s apartment, directly opposite, and she snapped a few pictures.

“Follow me,” Detective Wallace said, holding the door open, and Christine went inside, struck instantly by an intensely horrible odor. It was unmistakably blood, organic and decomposing, and it turned her stomach. She didn’t know if the smell was more powerful because the apartment had been closed up or if it was because of her pregnancy, but she had trouble keeping her gorge down.

“Watch your step.” Detective Wallace turned on the light, then pointed to the floor, and Christine looked down, appalled to see bloody footprints that led from the door, around the kitchen table, and out of the room.