“Patrick and Meggie say they were the last ones there. And they left at twelve forty-five.”

He blinked and then shrugged. “So maybe it was less than that. I left right before them.”

“Did you see what time the artist left? Chris?”

He frowned for a moment and then shook his head. “No, but I think it was before me. I went to grab one more beer, and when I came back into the living room, she was already gone.”

“What was your wife doing when you got upstairs?”

“She was in the shower when I got home,” he said. “She had this thing about showering before bed. She always thought it was so gross to get into the bed if you hadn’t showered for the night.”

“What happened after that?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I was lying in the bed while she was in the shower. I remember that. I had a lot to drink tonight, as you may have been told. That’s the thing about living in the same place where your friends live. You tend to overindulge because you know that you don’t have far to get home.”

He swayed a little in the chair, and I realized that he was still recovering from whatever it was he’d had to drink. The news of his wife’s death had obviously been sobering but not nearly enough.

“The responding officer said that he had a hard time waking you up. Did you wake up anytime before he arrived?”

Andrew nodded. “Once. And I’ve been trying to rack my brain about it, but it’s so damned fuzzy.”

“What do you mean?” Claire asked.

“I woke up once because I heard Bev talking out in the living room.”

Claire frowned. “What time was it?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and Claire could see the frustration on his face. “I don’t know if it was as I was falling asleep or sometime later. But I heard her talking to someone.”

“Was it a man or a woman?”

“It was a man’s voice,” he said. “I called out, and I think she said it was Emma, but looking back, I don’t think it was.”

“You sure you can’t remember what time it was?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” he said, and his voice cracked. “I wish I could, but it’s all so fuzzy. To be honest, there’s a part of me that thinks I could’ve dreamt it.”

Chapter 15

Paula

Two days before

Ryan Hooks, the very famous singer I was desperately trying to blackmail, finally called me at 3:34 a.m. on Thursday.

It took my brain a few minutes to break through the fog of sleep, recognize that the melodious sound filling my head was coming from my cell phone, register that it was from an unknown number, and understand that it might be him.

It might be him!