Suddenly a woman started to cry, holding a Kleenex to her blotchy face as she was comforted by another woman. They must have been coworkers of Gail Robinbrecht’s because they both had on blue scrubs and each wore a laminated employee ID from Chesterbrook Hospital on a green lanyard.

Christine wasn’t surprised to see Lauren’s eyes glistening, and she touched her best friend’s arm. “Let’s go,” she said softly.

“Right.” Lauren fell into step with Christine, and they walked stiffly away.

“Sorry I dragged you here.”

“It’s okay. It puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?”

“How so?” Christine asked quietly as they turned the corner and headed toward the car.

“That life is short, and sweet. You have to live it in a way that makes you proud.” Lauren wiped her eye, blinking back her tears. “That’s it, that’s all I got.”

“That’s pretty good,” Christine said, patting her on the back, but ahead they both spotted the tattooed woman, still muttering to herself as she swept. She was either drunk or crazy, so they gave her a wide berth, but just as they were passing, the woman stopped sweeping, turned, and straightened up, glaring at them.

“Well, girls? Did you see what you wanted to see? Did you get your jollies?”

“No, really, please,” Christine started to say, raising her hand, but the woman’s eyes flared with anger.

“Did you shed a few tears, did you have a good cry? Boo-hoo! Boo-hoo!”

Lauren fended her off with a hand. “Look, that’s uncalled for—”

“Is it?” the woman demanded, stabbing her broom into the sidewalk. “How the hell would you know? You don’t know her! You hear she was a nurse, you think she was a saint! But I’m telling you, that woman was no saint! She was a slut!”

“Please, we have to go,” Christine said, shaken. She didn’t want to hear the woman speak ill, much less slut-shame, and Lauren hustled away to the car.

“She lived back there!” The woman shook the broomstick toward the backyards. “You see that second floor, the duplex with the yellow door, where the stairs go? That’s where she lived!”

Christine looked back toward the yellow door, only because she hadn’t realized that Gail Robinbrecht had lived in a duplex. None of the newspaper articles had said that, and Christine spotted the bright yellow door, which had a stairwell that zigzagged down the back of the row house, standing out against the brick because it was of unpainted lumber.

“That’s right! Take a good look!” the woman shouted at her. “I live right across from her door. My kitchen’s across from hers. You know how many different men I saw come up and down the stairs late at night? Plenty!”

Christine’s eyes flared, but she couldn’t stop listening. She scanned the back walls of the other houses, and she could see that wooden stairwells had been added to many of them, so they all must have been duplexes with the entrances around the back.

“One man after the other, all different, they were booty calls! That’s what they’re called! Booty calls!” The woman shook her head, her lips making a bitter line. “What did she expect was gonna happen? You gonna bring home strange men? You’re gonna let them in? That’s Gail the saint!”

Christine listened, appalled, but she started to think about the implications for Zachary. He could’ve been one of several men that Gail hooked up with, maybe even one of many. Maybe he had been telling the truth, that he’d found her dead already.

“The neighbors on the front of the street, they don’t see what I see! You know what I think? She was a slut and a hypocrite! You play with fire? Sooner or later you’re gonna get burned! That’s what I—”

“Miss,” Christine interrupted, “what’s your name?”

“Linda Kent. Mrs. Kent! I’m a widow!”

“My name is Christine Nilsson, and I’m wondering if you saw anything suspicious or unusual on the night she was murdered. Did you see any man, or men, on her back steps?”

“See something, say something! See something, say something! I already called the police! They said they’d call me back and get my statement.” The woman brandished the broom, her eyes wild. “Now get lost! Get back to Connecticut!!”

Christine turned away, then hustled for the car.

The woman could have been drunk, or crazy.

Or she could’ve been correct.

Chapter Twenty-two

Christine called Griff as soon as she got in the car, driving away from Warwick Street. She hit the SPEAKER button so Lauren could hear, then stuck her smartphone on the Drop-Stop sticker she kept on her dashboard, so she could talk hands-free.

Griff picked up after two rings. “What?”

“I was just at 305 Warwick Street, Gail Robinbrecht’s house. I found out that she lived in a duplex, and a neighbor around the back said that she used to have a lot of men going up the stairs at night.”

“You went to the crime scene?” Griff asked, surprised.

“Well, I went to her house. I couldn’t get inside, it was taped.” Christine cruised through the leafy residential area of West Chester. “But I thought you could follow up on that for the defense. It suggests that there may have been other suspects, other than Zachary. I mean Jeffcoat. He could have been telling the truth.”

Lauren looked over, rolling her eyes, since she hadn’t been inclined to credit Kent’s ravings.

“His defense is my job, not yours. Assuming he retains me.”

“I know, but I thought I could help, and I’m sure he’s going to retain you.” Christine caught sight of the business district up ahead and hit the gas. “The woman’s name is Linda Kent and she lives on Daley Street. She tried to tell the police what she saw, if anything, but they didn’t get back—”

“I have to go. Call me after you meet with Jeffcoat. Tell me if he wants to retain me.” Griff paused. “Remember, no talking to him about the case. Don’t tell him what you just told me.”

“Why not?” Christine turned right, onto the main road, and traffic was moving along steadily out-of-town. People strolled on the sidewalks, window-shopping or waiting in line for restaurants, and folk music wafted from the open door of a bar, under a banner that read, HAVE A GR8T SUMMER, WCU STUDENTS!