“He say anything to either of you in the days preceding that indicated he was worried about anything, anyone?”

“No,” she says.

Mr. Pearson’s gaze settles on Chase’s phone as Chase types quickly. “He seemed fine to me,” he adds, clears his throat.

“Okay, Mr. Pearson, walk us through the evening, if you would,” I say, and sit back, observing his face as he goes through pretty much the same scenario as the others. He loses some of the attitude as he tells his story, as if he realizes he sounded like a dick when the interview began. He ends his tale with his hands folded on the table.

“Can either of you think of anything that might shed light on Dr. Bradley’s death?”

“No.” Mrs. Pearson wipes her nose and sticks the tissue back in her purse. “Do you think it was one of his patients? Someone who had severe mental problems?”

“Could be.”

I look over my notes. “You guys live about a ten-minute drive from the Bradleys?”

“Yes. About,” Mrs. Pearson says.

“You both go right home, right to bed after the party?”

“Yes,” Mr. Pearson says. “We didn’t know anything was wrong until Molly called the next morning.”

“Uh huh.” I scribble in my notebook, a quick sketch of both of them next to my observations. “Either of you have anything to add that might help us find your friend’s killer?”

Neither of them does, and they leave, Mr. Pearson’s hand firmly on his wife’s back.

* * *

I turn on the lights in my apartment and drop my takeout bag on the coffee table. I head into my bedroom, peel off my work clothes and slip into yoga pants and an old Rolling Stones concert T-shirt. On my way through the kitchen, I pour a glass of wine and set it next to my burger and fries. I flip through my vinyl collection, place a record on the turntable and Crosby, Stills and Nash fill the apartment with heavenly harmonies. I get settled on the couch, take a sip of wine and sigh, then drag my satchel over. I put on my gloves and take out Dr. Bradley’s planners. I’m just about to open the newest one, stamped with this year’s date, when voices erupt from the foyer.

Mrs. Antonelli, my new neighbor, is screeching at her son or daughter. Don’t know which one yet. They helped her move in last month. Apparently, they sold her house out from under her, as she put it, but she refused to move into the senior care facility they picked out. The compromise was the apartment across the foyer from mine. The daughter lives around the corner. It seems Mrs. Antonelli is unable to finish a conversation in the confines of her own place, and I’m treated to a loud dialogue practically on my doorstep whenever anyone comes or goes, and that’s often. For a tiny eighty-two-year-old, she has a strong, loud voice. The son’s and daughter’s voices are gentle hums between her bursts of conversation or shouting, as the case may be.