“Hi. Come on in.” She thought about shaking hands, but the gesture seemed stiff and formal. So she just lifted them, let them fall. “I don’t know how to do this. It all feels so weird and strange.”

“You called. I’m here. That’s a start.”

As he didn’t understand awkward, Thomas padded right over to greet Ash. “Your cat or theirs?”

“Oh, theirs. Thomas is great company though. I’ll miss him when the job’s finished.”

Ash gave the cat one long stroke, head to tail, as she often did herself. “Do you ever get confused when you wake up in the morning? Like, where am I exactly?”

“No, not in a long time. Crossing time zones can throw me off, but mostly I work in and around New York.”

“This is a nice space,” he said, when he straightened. “Good light.”

“It really is. And you’re making small talk so I won’t feel so weird. Why don’t I show you where I was when it happened? That’s the hard part, and that’ll be done.”

“Okay.”

“I’m staying in the guest room.” She gestured. “It has a window facing west. That night I was unwinding after Julie left. Oh, she knows you. Julie Bryant. She manages Chelsea Arts.”

Tall, glamorous redhead, he thought, with an excellent eye and a great what-the-hell laugh. “You know Julie?”

“We’ve been friends for years. She was here until a little before midnight that night. There was a lot of wine, then cupcakes involved, so I was restless. I picked these up.”

She offered him the binoculars.

“I make up stories, it’s what I do. I had a few going on in some of the windows over there, so I was checking them out for the next scene. That sounds ridiculous.”

“No, it doesn’t. I make up images—that’s just another kind of story.”

“Well, good. I mean good it doesn’t sound ridiculous. Anyway, I saw her. Sage Kendall.”

“At the window that’s boarded up now.”

“Yeah. The one to the left with the little balcony is the bedroom.”

“These take you right there, don’t they?” He spoke softly as he looked through the glasses.

“It’s always been a game for me—since I was a kid. Like television or a movie or book. I stopped a burglary once—in Paris a couple years ago. I saw someone break into the flat across from where I was staying one night when the tenants were out.”

“Travel and adventure, and crime-solving. The life of a house-sitter.”

“Mostly not the crime-solving, but . . .”

“You didn’t see Oliver. My brother.”

“No, just her. The bedroom light was off, and whatever light was on in the living area was on low. She was in front of the window. Like this.”

She stepped up, angling herself. “Talking to someone who must have been standing just off to her left, in the wall space between windows. I saw him hit her. It was so fast, but I must have seen his hand. What I remember is the way her head snapped back, the way she put her own hand up to her face, like this.”

Lila demonstrated, cradling her cheek and jaw in her hand.

“He hit her again. Fist, dark sleeve. That’s all I saw, so fast I barely saw it. My phone was there, on the table by the bed. I grabbed it, then I looked back out. Then she was against the glass. I could only see her back, her hair coming down out of her updo.”

“Show me. Would you mind?”

“Like . . .” She turned her back to the window, adjusted for the sill as she leaned back on the glass.

“And you only saw her. You’re sure of it?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“She was tall. Five-ten. I looked it up.” He set the binoculars down. “Oliver was my height, six-one. That’s three inches taller, and he was holding her back against the window . . .”

Ash stepped over. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to show you.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, carefully, eased her back, his hands warm through her shirt as if they were skin-to-skin. “If he held her this way, she’d be tipped back some, like you are.”

Her heart kicked a little. He wasn’t going to shove her out the window—she wasn’t afraid of that, or him. But she wondered why such an awful thing—mimicking murder—seemed so strangely intimate.

“Why didn’t you see him?” Ash demanded. “If someone looked in here now, they’d see me over your head.”

“I’m only five-five. She had five inches on me.”

“Even with that, his head would have been above hers. You should’ve seen some of his face.”

“I didn’t, but she could’ve been wearing heels. She had some great shoes, and . . . but she wasn’t,” Lila remembered. “She wasn’t. She didn’t have shoes on.”

Her feet kicking as she fell. Bare feet.

“She wasn’t wearing heels. She wasn’t wearing shoes at all.”

“Then you should’ve seen his face. At least some of his face.”

“I didn’t.”

“Maybe because whoever pushed her was shorter than Oliver. Shorter than she was.”

He picked up the glasses again, looked out. “You said a fist, a black sleeve.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. It’s what pops into my head when I try to see it again.”

“Someone closer to her height, wearing a black shirt. I need to ask the police what Oliver was wearing.”

“Oh. But it might’ve been navy or dark gray. The light wasn’t very good.”

“A dark shirt, then.”

“I’d talked myself out of thinking there’d been someone else. You talked me into it,” she said when he looked at her again. “Then I talked myself out of it. Now you’re talking me into it again. I don’t know which is worse.”

“There’s no worse.” He lowered the glasses again, his eyes sharp with an anger she could feel shimmering off his skin. “But there’s the truth.”

“I hope you find it. You can see the building from another angle from the terrace, if you want. I could use the air.”

She went out without waiting for a response. He hesitated a moment, then taking the binoculars, followed her.

“I want some water. Do you want some water?”