32

“J ane didn’t stay with me that night.”

Zac crossed his arms, looking self-satisfied. “Don’t play with me.”

“I’m not playing. Why would you say that?”

He scoffed. “No, let me ask you a question. Why were you and Jane hanging out so much lately?”

“Because we were becoming friends. Because she asked me to be on Trial TV.”

“Friends.” Another bitter laugh. “I bet you were good friends.”

“What are you implying?”

“That you and Jane were more than friends.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Then why were you being so evasive when I called Saturday morning?”

I paused. Fine, I would come out with it. “If I sounded evasive, it was because I thought your wife had probably gone home with a man she was talking to Friday night.” I wasn’t sure how much to say. I had promised Jane I wouldn’t say anything about the scarfing, given her my word as an attorney, too. But I could say anything I wanted about myself. “And also…” This was embarrassing. “I went home with a man, a kid really. I went home with this guy, and he was with me when you called, and the whole situation was making me nervous, and…” I held my free hand up in a shrug. “And that’s why I probably sounded evasive, but Jane was not with me.”

Zac looked unimpressed. “She wouldn’t tell me who she was with that night. She usually did, but not on that night.”

“She was with some writer.”

“Some writer?” His question was laced with sarcasm.

“Yes, Mick is his name.”

“Mick what?”

“Mick…uh…actually I never did learn it.” Again, I experienced that feeling I’d had the night before at the police station-a feeling of guilt. It was irrational. There was no reason to feel guilty about anything. And if anyone should feel guilt, shouldn’t it be Zac? His anger was palpable now but contained. What had he been like in the private moments with Jane, who he knew cheated on him, and frequently? Had he been so contained with her?

Zac shook his head, his mouth tightening. “It was the same thing with you that it was with all the guys she was with-all of a sudden she’s out one night, and it’s just business or it’s just friends, and then I can’t find her. It was the same shit with you.” His voice was getting louder. “The exact same shit!”

I looked around, embarrassed. People were starting to stare. This was bizarre. Six months ago I’d been at Forester’s funeral and had been pulled into a confrontation. The same thing was happening here.

I leaned toward him and dropped my voice. “Zac, it was just business. We were just friends.”

Q arrived at my side then. He put a hand on my elbow. “Everything okay here?”

I took a breath, inhaling air that seemed foul, tinged with accusations. “Q, this is Zac, Jane’s husband.”

They shook hands, Q murmuring words of condolence. Those kind, soft-spoken words made me remember that we were at a funeral, and the man in front of me had lost his wife, and that man had probably not slept last night and was most likely just shooting his mouth off out of exhaustion.

“Look, Zac,” I said calmly. “Not that it matters, but Jane really wasn’t with me Friday night.”

“Not that it matters?” Zac’s tone was mocking now. “The way I see it, you were with Jane a lot this weekend-she stayed at your place Friday night, she ran back to meet you for coffee the next morning so you could get your stories straight, you came over when she found that shit in the house. And now that I think about it, maybe you left those flowers and that noose. You probably knew where she kept the key.”

My mouth opened. Wide. But no sounds came from it. I looked at Q, whose face was surprised and confused. As my assistant, Q had always known what to do to get me out of trouble, but neither of us knew what to do here.

Two men came up to Zac then. “We’re so sorry,” one said. Zac shook their hands. He patted one on the shoulder with his left hand.

And I saw then that on Zac’s left hand was a massive bruise. It covered the base of his thumb, the knuckles of his first two fingers. Its blue-black color seeped toward the center of his hand.

I felt my eyebrows knit together as I stared at it.

Zac must have seen my look. When the men left, he glanced down at his hand. “I had an accident at our house in Long Beach,” he said. “I was cutting up the dead wood that fell during the winter. The whole stack fell on my hand.”

I wanted to say, The dog ate my homework once, too. He just happened to get a bruised hand at the same time his wife was beaten and killed?

“Look,” he said, his voice laced with undisguised frustration. “The cops have already seen this, all right?” He lifted his hand then, holding it, clenched, in front of my face.

I drew back instinctively.

“Jesus, you’re scared of me?” he said, his voice raised. Over his shoulder I saw a couple of people turn and stare.

“I’m not scared, Zac.” I made my tone soothing. But truthfully, I was scared. This whole situation was spiraling out of control, and seeing Zac’s raised fist made me think how terrified Jane must have felt on the night of her death. I was sick at the thought, sick with the realization that Jane had died, not in a bed surrounded by relatives, but facedown on the floor of her house, her skull bashed and bleeding. Someone raising a fist, or some other object, over and over. Someone wrapping that scarf around her neck.

Zac dropped his fist and breathed out hard. The anger disappeared from his features, and for a moment anguish returned, like a bird landing on a familiar branch. I wondered if he would cry. “I loved Jane. More than anyone. More than anything.”

“I’m sure you did.” That was the truth. I didn’t doubt for a second that Zac had loved Jane. Probably immensely. But had he loved her so much that he could no longer tolerate her stepping-out behavior? Had it made him a little crazy?

I looked around to see if anyone had been watching our conversation. A few people nearby turned away. Elsewhere, people talked in muted voices and drank fast.

A tall man came up behind Zac then. His silver hair was coifed, and he had a strong body that looked like something you’d see on a thirty-five-year-old, rather than the sixty-five years he probably had seen. Jackson Prince.

Prince gave me a sad smile, clearly not recognizing me from the station, then touched Zac lightly on the arm. “I have to leave,” he said in his signature melodic voice. I’d heard he could woo a jury in two sentences.

“I just wanted to say how much I adored Jane,” Prince said. “I respected her work immensely. She was one of the best.”

She was one of the best who was about to bust you for something big.

Zac shook his hand. “Thanks, Jack. That means a lot.”

Prince murmured a few more words about Jane and promised to check in with Zac to see if he needed anything, then he turned and made his way through the multitude of mourners, moving lightly on his feet, nodding hello to people at every turn.

Zac stared at Prince’s retreating back, then at one of the windows overlooking Chicago Avenue, as if he was looking for his wife, who might any minute be running, late, up the street.

He turned back to me, his eyes lasering onto mine. “You should know, I told the cops I thought you were with Jane Friday night.”

Again, that irrational guilt rippled through me. I felt my throat tightening. “Zac, that’s not true. Even if it were, what are you trying to imply? That I was the one who hurt Jane? That’s ludicrous.”

“Is it? Guys were always getting intense about Jane. I’ve seen it more than once. So why should you be any different? And Jane was always up-front about how she didn’t want to leave her marriage. I wondered when someone would get too intense and not be able to take it. As far as I know, you’ve been seeing her for a while. As far as I know, she was breaking up with you.”