She walked just as carefully up the stairs as she had the first time. With the body gone, it was easier to see the splotches of blood that had seeped into the carpet and stained the wall near the top of the stairwell. Claire sidestepped each stain and frowned when he saw something on the carpet.

At first, it looked like blood, another one of the deep-red swipes that seemed to be everywhere in the staircase.

But she leaned closer and saw that the color was just a little bit off; the hue was darker and richer than the rest.

“There’s something on the floor here,” Claire said as she stepped into the third-floor apartment.

One of the investigators looked up and nodded before walking over to examine it.

Claire spotted Andrew Brighton right away. He was tall and stocky, with brown hair cut low to hide the fact that it was thinning at the temples. He was sitting by himself as the officers walked around the apartment looking for evidence.

“Mr. Brighton,” she said, and he looked up. “I’m Detective Claire Puhl. I’m wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

Andrew blinked and stared at her for a few seconds before responding.

“Okay,” he said robotically.

“I’m so incredibly sorry for your loss tonight,” Claire said. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I just have a few questions to ask you so that we can do everything we can to figure out what happened to your wife.”

“You want to question me because you think I might have done it.” He said it matter-of-factly, with little emotion in his voice.

Claire swallowed. People reacted differently to tragedy, and while Andrew’s response wasn’t uncommon, it still made her raise an eyebrow. “I’m just trying to get the most information I can to find out what happened.”

“They’re all treating me like I’m a suspect,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken. “Like I could’ve done…” He trailed off and looked at the open door. After a moment, he swallowed and then looked back at Claire. “Like I could have done this.”

“May I ask what you do for a living, Mr. Brighton?” Claire asked. “I know that Beverly was a lawyer.”

“I’m a gym teacher at North Side College Prep,” he said, looking down at a large class ring on his finger. He spun it around in a circle a few times. “That’s where Bev and I met. High school sweethearts.” He shook his head.

“Can you tell me about what time your wife left Emma Bentley’s dinner party?”

“She left around midnight.”

“And you stayed?”

“Yes,” he said. “I was talking to the kid, Patrick.”

“What time did you come upstairs?” Claire asked.

“Not much longer after she left. Forty-five minutes? An hour? I know I was up here by one.”