“Listen, the cops must have found the messages between Melissa and me. They were kind of cryptic. I wanted her to come out and meet me so I could tell her. I may have been a little effusive in my compliments. As a result, I think the police think we were romantically involved. At least, that’s kind of what Imani implied.”

It didn’t take a genius to see where Mike was going. To clear his name with regard to Nate’s murder, he’d have to explain that he wasn’t a jealous lover but a concerned citizen in the acting community. He’d have to tell Imani and everyone else all about what had happened.

“You can’t use my name.”

Mike picked at a hangnail on his thumb. “I’ll say that I’d heard about Nate through the grapevine, and I thought that his wife should know. Hopefully she’ll tell the police and that will be the end of it.”

Tonya threw up a hand in frustration. Mike couldn’t really be this dense. “You don’t think the cops will want to talk to you after? You don’t think they’ll demand names?”

Mike bit off the jagged piece of skin. “Worst-case scenario, they’ll talk to us, and that will be the end of it. It’s not like you or I could have done anything. The newspapers said Nate was killed Thursday night. We were together at your apartment.”

“How convenient.” Tonya again rolled her eyes. “You think they’ll believe that?”

“I took the subway to your place. I’m sure I’m on a camera somewhere. They’ll have to look. I have my MetroCard too. That probably scans somehow. And Layla knows I was over, or that someone was.”

Tonya closed her eyes, imagining how Mike’s conversation would inevitably play out. He’d talk to Imani, revealing Nate’s bad acts. Imani would tell the police.

Or not, Tonya realized. Knowledge of Nate’s actions gave Melissa motive for murder. If Imani was truly Melissa Walker’s best friend, then perhaps she wouldn’t want to give the cops any more ammunition against her. Perhaps she’d stay quiet, let law enforcement figure out Mike’s identity on their own.

“The police didn’t message you?”

“Not that I know of.” Mike examined his irritated finger, perhaps avoiding eye contact. “I did get a random message from some stranger claiming to be a producer seeking talent for an East Village production. I checked all the usual posting sites, though, and there wasn’t anything about it. Nothing on Backstage or even Craigslist.”