Without an intact visage, it was almost possible for Imani to convince herself that the body hadn’t actually belonged to Melissa’s husband. Almost. The room was obviously Nate’s den. Imani had hung out there often, especially when the kids had been young. She and Melissa had made a habit of eating together Thursdays or Fridays, sometimes at Philip’s restaurant, more often at a cheap pizza joint, and then tucking all the kids to bed—pulling out a trundle in Ava’s room for Vivienne and blowing up an air mattress in the playroom for Jay—before sneaking several flights downstairs for adult conversation and cocktails. Nate would join them after returning from his latest networking dinner. Philip would appear as soon as his shift ended, usually with a nice bottle of scotch or wine to thank the Walkers for their frequent hosting.

Imani examined the photo for clues pointing to Melissa’s culpability. Scattered books that her friend might have tossed in an uncharacteristic rage. Furniture overturned during a desperate escape from a drunken husband waving a gun in the midst of an unexpected breakdown. A hastily scrawled, faux suicide note in Melissa’s loopy handwriting.

Besides the body, all Imani saw was a desk with an open drawer, a bottle of Bushmills, and a heavy scotch glass. Nate, no doubt, had the same quarantine wind-down routine as Philip. Grab a whiskey. Sip while reading or watching television. If still unable to sleep, repeat.

Imani zoomed in. The desk appeared to have a condensation ring. Nate’s own glass could have formed the mark before being moved. But it also could have been left by another vessel, the glass of whoever he’d been drinking with. Melissa was not a whiskey fan. “Motor oil by any other name is still motor oil,” she’d joked once, bastardizing Shakespeare. “It goes down the same.”

Imani saved the photo to her desktop. She then leaned back into her Eames lounger and closed her eyes, trying to insert her friend into the image on her computer. She pictured Melissa and Nate in some drama-worthy lovers’ quarrel, perhaps over Melissa’s online love affair. She imagined Melissa holding the gun—a gift from a director who’d thought Melissa the rightful owner of the weapon that her character had shot over and over in a blind rage. She imagined Melissa firing at Nate, playing out one of her unhinged roles. And then…

Imani could see Melissa calling the cops. She could picture Melissa phoning her with news of a terrible accident and asking that Ava be allowed to stay over. If Imani forced the rational woman whom she knew into a state of absolute state of panic, she could even envision a scenario where Melissa absconded with her daughter. But there was no way that she could fit Melissa into a narrative that had her leaving her kid inside to stumble upon her dad’s dead body.