“But wait, please. Think about this. A person who thought he was seen by Linda Kent going up Gail Robinbrecht’s stairs, or who might have believed he was seen, would have a motive to murder Linda Kent. Maybe he’s the real killer, not Zachary. The killer would be somebody who knew, or suspected, he was seen and didn’t want to take any chances.” Christine’s thoughts raced. “Zachary’s in prison, so it couldn’t have been him. Don’t you think that’s worth following up on? I think that’s the kind of thing that can really help the defense, don’t you?”

“Leave Jeffcoat’s defense to me—”

“I am, I’m just saying that this seems like an unusual turn of events. Don’t you agree?”

“I don’t want to discuss it with you. Now will you please let me hang up? I’m trying to remain a gentleman—”

Christine couldn’t let him go just yet. “One last question. Now that you met with him, do you think he’s innocent? He told me that he wanted a lawyer who believed in his innocence.”

“Well, all he’s got is me,” Griff answered, then hung up.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Christine tugged a weed from between two purple coneflowers, trying to clear her head. She hadn’t known what to do with herself after the phone call with Griff, and she couldn’t seem to shake the notion that Linda Kent’s death might not have been an accident. She needed not to think about it anymore, and the same went for Zachary. She took out another weed and tossed it in the red plastic bucket she used for plant refuse.

She had started the garden three years ago, back when they couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t getting pregnant, and even then she was self-aware enough to know that she wanted to grow something, even if it wasn’t a baby. They had a small yard in the front and back of the house, but she had located the garden in front by the driveway, so she could see it every time she came home.

Their house, the New Construction, was actually set perpendicular to the road, not facing it, and a tall hedge bordering their street gave her privacy while she gardened, so she could wear whatever she wanted, like the tank top and gym shorts she had on now, even braless. She’d never felt so constrained by a bra before she had gotten pregnant, and last week, before all hell had broken loose, she had happily begun to notice her breasts swelling, newly sexy on her tomboyish figure. Ordinarily, she would’ve spent the afternoon shopping online for the least-ugly nursing bra, but shopping for the baby had been tainted by the events of the morning.

Christine pulled another weed, but it came with too much dirt and she shook it out before she tossed it into the bucket. The garden was just beginning to bloom, and she could see that it was going to be a good summer. She’d planted only perennials because they’d come back every year, saving her a lot of work since she’d hoped she’d be busy when their baby finally arrived. When that looked like it was going to take longer than anticipated, she made peace with the perennial decision, if only because she loved the unruly wildness to coneflower, some with delicate purple petals and others with a dusky pink, and rudbeckia, or black-eyed Susans, whose bright golden petals stood out like yellow caution lights in the mass plantings she favored.

She pulled another weed. Elsewhere in the garden she had planted groupings of purplish Japanese anemone, tall white phlox, and some pale blue delphinium, which she couldn’t wait to see bloom. Along the border, catmint was already beginning to spread, and she felt happy that she had at least one plant that deer and rabbits wouldn’t eat. She hadn’t begun to spray yet, pumping the rotten egg and pepper repellent that obliterated the sweet perfume of the yellow roses and the fresh earthen smells of the dirt, but it was a price every gardener had to pay.

She plucked another weed from the coneflowers and tossed it into the bucket. She was one of those strange birds who loved weeding, seeing it as a way to nurture the garden entire, and usually it transported her and she would lose her worries in the performance of a simple task, but she couldn’t find her weed groove today. She was too preoccupied by everything. She couldn’t help but wonder about Linda Kent and shuddered to think of the woman’s being pushed down the stairwell to her death.

Christine tried to puzzle out why Kent would be outside on the stairwell at night, anyway. Having a smoke? Looking at the stars? She tried to remember if she had seen any plants or flowers on Kent’s stairwell, maybe something that needed watering, but she couldn’t remember anything like that. Kent could have gone out to answer the door. But for whom?

Christine kept weeding, imagining the awful scene. There would be a knock at Linda Kent’s door, and she would go to answer it, maybe after a few drinks. She would open the door, either recognizing the man or not, even assuming it was a man, but what if it wasn’t a friendly visitor? What if the man had thrown her down the stairs? Would neighbors have heard it? Would anybody have seen it?

Christine keep weeding and thinking. She didn’t have any answers. She didn’t remember any streetlights in the street behind the houses. Maybe there was security lighting or motion detectors. Maybe somebody saw something but hadn’t reported it to the police. Or maybe the police had made a mistake and not asked enough questions, so they’d ruled the death an accident. Kent might not have had the chance to tell them about the men going up Gail Robinbrecht’s stairwell, so they would have no reason to consider anything suspicious about her death.

Christine pulled another weed, shook off the extra dirt, and tossed it into the bucket. Wondering why she was wasting her time, at home.

But she still had dinner with her in-laws to get through.

Chapter Thirty

Christine sat alone at the table, nursing her ice water while she waited for the others to arrive. The restaurant was called Bangkok Dream, a pricey favorite of Marcus’s father’s, with floor-to-ceiling draperies of tangerine silk and scrolls of antique Japanese art bordered by red calligraphy. Pendant halogen lights glistened off the polished teak tables, each set with exotic chopstick holders, and the food was Thai, Japanese sushi, and other Asian fusion, even the smells of which did not appeal to Christine in her current state. She wished for a strong margarita, but of course she hadn’t ordered one. She was already worried that her baby was going to have enough strikes against him. Or her.