“Okay. You hear anything after you went to bed? Raised voices? A scuffle?”

I was passed out. I can’t even remember putting on my pajamas. “No. I didn’t hear anything.”

Detective Myers lifts a piece of notebook paper, looks it over through black-rimmed reading glasses. “So you had three couples at your house for the party. What can you tell me about them?”

I describe our friends and wonder what the detectives are thinking. Are they looking for trouble among our little group? From my perspective, that seems a waste of time. Whoever did this to Jay has to be a monster. No one who knew him would’ve hurt him. But maybe a patient, someone so disturbed that he or she shifted their animus onto Jay, made him the bad guy. I’m sure there’s a psychological term for that.

Detective Myers nods as I talk. She writes in her notebook, her pencil scratching across the page, and I notice she’s drawing, sketching a picture of me.

I look up and catch her gaze, and she snaps her notebook shut.

My cheeks are wet with tears, and I lean back into the sofa and wipe my face with my sleeve.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bradley,” Detective Myers says. “That’s all for now.”

They stand, and Corrine pops up and walks them out. I wander to the window and glance down at the busy street below. I see cars, traffic, but no media, thank God. Not yet. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray they don’t find me.

CHAPTER 4

Rita

DR. WESTMORE ANSWERS HER PHONE ON THE FIRST RING. SHE AND her husband are home, so we head back to Graybridge. The house is a massive three-story a few blocks from the Bradley residence. It sits back from the main road, obviously built a hundred years ago or more, with a big wraparound porch and gingerbread trim. We park in the long driveway, head up the walkway.

The door swings open, and we’re greeted by a thin woman with shoulder-length brown hair and swooping bangs. She’s dressed like she’s going to work, even though it’s Sunday. Neat beige trousers, a white blouse, green print scarf around her neck. She’s older than Mrs. Bradley by at least a decade.

“Come in, Detectives,” she says after we introduce ourselves. She leads us down a dark, polished hardwood hallway. A large tabby cat darts from a side room, quiet as a prowler. It scampers after her and escorts us into an antiques-laden parlor.

Dr. Westmore sits demurely in a carved and padded wooden chair, while Chase and I get settled on a stiff settee facing her.

“Is your husband here?” I ask.

“In the garden. Should I get him?”

I fish my notebook out of my satchel. “We’ll talk to you first.”

She nods, and her red-rimmed blue eyes take a furtive glance at a pack of cigarettes sitting next to an ashtray on the end table.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” I say.

She tips her chin up toward the wedding cake of a ceiling and blows out a breath. “I can’t believe it. Jay was . . .” She shakes her head. “He was a peach of a man. Smart, compassionate. A terrific psychologist.” Her voice catches. “How could this have happened?” A tear slips down her cheek, and she wipes it away with a blood-red manicured fingernail.