Again, Imani refused to be intimidated by her husband. “Of course I have something to do with it when it involves our livelihood and our home and our friends!” She was shouting, both to be heard over the banging and to match Philip’s aggression. “You didn’t think it could impact our family’s relationship with the Walkers to go into business with Nate? I mean, Melissa always said he wasn’t known for investing well. How did he handle it when the place went under? I have a hard time thinking he shrugged and said, ‘Welp, that’s business.’”

Philip stepped toward her. His shoulders were square. His arms were held out from his body. A chill ran up Imani’s spine.

“Nate’s a dolt. He invests in Coffre, right? Gives me money to set the place up and market it, run it for a while until it takes off. Then, when the place has to close because of a damn pandemic, he tries to argue that he should get his money back, completely ignoring the fact that we had to pay the rent for the entire restaurant space, including Banque, during the shutdown. It’s not like we could keep Coffre functioning while letting the main restaurant fail. What’s Coffre going to operate inside? An ABC Carpet? A Google headquarters?”

Philip gestured wildly as he spoke, his fingers coming within inches of Imani’s face. She stepped back. “When did you have this conversation with him?” She lowered her voice, afraid of her follow-up. “Was it the night he died?”

Philip abruptly stopped moving, a freight train slamming into a wall. Imani could almost feel his body buzzing across from her, reverberating from the impact.

“No.”

“I saw the crime scene photos, Philip. There was a bottle of Bushmills on his desk. Black label.”

Philip’s hands went to his hips. “It’s a good whiskey.” His eyes shrank to slivers. “What are you getting at, Imani?”

Hairs stood up on the back of her neck, not only from the cold tone of his question but also because she knew exactly what she was suggesting. Her husband had gotten into an argument with Nate. Things had become heated. Nate had grown intimidated by Philip, perhaps even scared. He’d grabbed Melissa’s gun, and Philip had gone into war mode. He’d compartmentalized, forgetting that Nate was a friend, focusing only on neutralizing the enemy. The only question was what he’d done with Melissa.

And what he might have done with the woman whose coat still hung in the kitchen.

“Where is Tonya, Philip?”

He shook his head. “Huh?”

“Her coat is on the hanger. It’s freezing outside. She wouldn’t have left without it.”

Philip shrugged. “I guess I got a bit adamant when telling her that she had to leave. She must have run out without it.”