It’s like I said the magic word. He stops trying to push me away.

“Why are you talking about her?”

“The cops suspect me because I used to walk by here,” I say. “And she told you about me. But I think there’s someone else they should be looking into. Can I come in and explain?”

“You can talk out there,” he says. “I know you were walking by the house. I know the cops tried to find you.”

“Zachary, it’s cold. Look, you’re barefoot. Can we just talk inside? For a few minutes?”

He watches me, appraising me like he’s the emperor and I’m the gladiator awaiting the thumbs-up or thumbs-down. Then he takes a step back, flinging the door open.

“Make it fast,” he says. “I work at home, so you’re interrupting me at my office.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The last time—the only time—I’d been in the house was when I stepped between Zachary and Sophia, interrupting their argument. And guilt strikes my heart like a burning brand. If I’d called the police then, if I’d reported what I’d witnessed, would Sophia be alive?

Had I added my name to a never-ending list of those who turned away when something could have been prevented?

Zachary closes the door, blocking out the faint sunlight. He stands between me and the door, hands on hips. He doesn’t invite me to sit. I study him, trying to decide if he looks like a murderer. How would I know? Do I look like one? Does Madeline?

“I need your help,” I say.

“I don’t see what I can do for you— Wait. You mentioned another suspect. If you just—”

“You know I interrupted that fight—or argument—between you and your wife.”

He sighs. “Isn’t it great to always be judged by your worst moment?”

“I’m in trouble with the police about that,” I say. “Your wife’s murder.”

“You should have been a suspect all along. . . . Wait a minute. Is this why Detective Bowman called me this morning? She said she wants to come over and ask me about something relating to Sophia’s case. Is it you she wants to ask about?”

“When is Bowman coming over?”

Zach’s face darkens. He takes a step back to look at me more carefully.

“Are you a new suspect? Let me tell you something—if you laid a hand on Sophia—”

“Wait.” I don’t know exactly how to proceed. The thumping in my head returns, doing its best to drown out my powers of logic and reason.

“Why should I wait?” he asks. “You killed my wife—”

“I didn’t.” I decide to come clean. “Okay. Your wife told you a man was watching her before she died. Someone who walked by with his dog and—I don’t know—looked at her. Looked in the house.”