“I don’t care if he was stoned or drunk or both, he wouldn’t hit a woman. He wouldn’t kill a woman. He’d never kill himself. He’d believe whatever he’d gotten sucked into, someone would pull him out again. An eternal optimist, that was Oliver.”

She wanted to be careful; she wanted to be kind. “Sometimes we don’t know people as well as we think.”

“You’re right. He was in love. Oliver was either in love or looking for it. He was in it. Whenever he’s ready to be out of it, he wiggles out, takes off awhile, sends the woman an expensive gift and a note of regret. ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ that kind of thing. Too many drama-filled divorces, so he went for the clean, callous break. And I know he was too damn vain to stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. If he was going to kill himself—and he’d never hit that much despair—he’d’ve gone for pills.”

“I think it was an accident—her fall. I mean all in the heat of the moment. He must’ve been out of his mind in those moments after.”

Ash shook his head. “He’d have called me, or come running. He’s his mother’s youngest and her only son, so he was indulged. When there was trouble, he’d call somebody to help him get out of it. That’s his knee-jerk. ‘Ash, I’m in some trouble here. You have to fix things.’”

“He usually called you.”

“For big trouble, it would’ve been me. And he’d never mix pills with his bourbon,” Ash added. “He had an ex who went that way, and it scared him. One or the other, not that he wouldn’t go too far with either, but one at a time.

“It doesn’t hold. It doesn’t,” he insisted. “You said you’d seen them together over there, watched them.”

Uncomfortable with the truth of that, she shifted. “I did. It’s a terrible habit. I need to stop.”

“You saw them fight, but he never got physical with her.”

“No . . . No, she was more physical. Threw things, mostly breakables. She threw her shoe at him once.”

“What did he do?”

“Ducked.” Lila smiled a little, and he caught the tiny dimple—a happy little wink—at the right corner of her mouth. “Good reflexes. My take was she yelled—and she shoved him once. He did a lot of fast talking, gestures, smooth. That’s why I called him Mr. Slick.”

The big, dark eyes widened in distress. “Oh God, I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s accurate. He was slick. He didn’t get mad, threaten her, get violent? Shove her back?”

“No. He said something that made her laugh. I could see, sense, she didn’t want to, but she turned away, tossed her hair. And he came over and . . . they got physical together. People should close the curtains if they don’t want an audience.”

“She threw something at him, yelled at him, pushed him. And he talked his way out of it, talked his way into sex. That’s Oliver.”

He never responded with violence, Lila considered. They’d had some sort of argument or fight every day, some disagreement every day, but he never struck her. Never touched her unless it was a prelude to sex.

And yet. “But the fact is she was pushed out the window, and he shot himself.”

“She was pushed out the window, but he didn’t push her—and he didn’t shoot himself. So, someone else was in the apartment. Someone else was there,” he said again, “and killed both of them. The questions are who, and why.”

It sounded plausible when he said it, just that way. It seemed . . . logical, and the logic of it made her doubt. “But isn’t there another question? How?”

“You’re right. Three questions. Answer one, maybe answer all.”

He kept his eyes on hers. He saw more than sympathy now. He saw the beginning of interest. “Can I see your apartment?”

“What?”

“The cops aren’t going to let me into Oliver’s place yet. I want to see it from the perspective you had that night. And you don’t know me,” he said before she could speak. “Have you got somebody who could be there with you so you wouldn’t be alone with me?”

“Maybe. I can see if I can work that out.”

“Great. Let me give you my number. Work it out, call me. I just need to see . . . I need to be able to see.”

She took out her phone, keyed in the number he gave her. “I have to get back. I’ve been gone longer than I meant to be.”

“I appreciate you talking to me. Listening.”

“I’m sorry about what happened.” She slid out of the booth, touched a hand to his shoulder. “For you, his mom, your family. I hope whatever the answers are, you get them. If I can work things out, I’ll call you.”

“Thanks.”

She left him sitting in the narrow booth, staring into the coffee he’d never touched.

Three

She called Julie, and dumped the entire story while she tended the plants, harvested tomatoes, entertained the cat.

Julie’s gasps, amazement and sympathy would’ve been enough, but there was more.

“I heard about this when I was getting ready for work this morning, and it was the Big Talk at the gallery today. We knew her a little.”

“You knew Blondie?” Wincing—the nickname seemed so wrong now. “I mean Sage Kendall.”

“A little. She came into the gallery a few times. Actually bought a couple of very nice pieces. Not my sale—I didn’t work with her, but I was introduced. I didn’t put it together. Even when they mentioned West Chelsea. I didn’t hear the specific apartment building, if they released that.”

“I don’t know. They have by now. I can see people down there, taking pictures. And some TV crews have done stand-ups in front of the building.”

“It’s awful. A terrible thing to happen, and awful for you, sweetie. They hadn’t released the name of the guy who pushed her, then killed himself, not this morning. I haven’t checked since.”

“Oliver Archer, aka Mr. Slick. I met his brother at the police station.”

“Well, that’s . . . awkward.”

“It probably should’ve been, but it wasn’t.” She sat on the floor of the bathroom, carefully sanding some shiny spots on the runners of one of the vanity drawers. It kept sticking, but she could fix that.