“Because I’m gay.”
“Ah, a convenient excuse.”
Kenzo stares at him, his smug calm giving way to something colder. “How so?”
“Well, it’s your word. You can’t exactly prove it.”
Kenzo holds Malcolm’s gaze. “You want a timeline of my coming out? A breakdown of my sexual history? A detailed description of the first time I let a guy suck my—”
Malcolm recoils. “No! That willnotbe necessary! And besides, it would prove nothing. A good writer knows how to spin a yarn.”
“Annnd, I think we’re done,” says Kenzo, getting to his feet.
“No, we’re not,” says Malcolm, but Kenzo only waves the empty coffee cup and heads for the door. Malcolm means to go after him, but the room wobbles a little when he pushes off the desk, so he decides it’s best to hold his ground. “You’re still a suspect.”
Kenzo pauses at the door. “You can play detective all you want, but if I were you, I’dwantthe rest of us to think it was an accident.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because if Sienna didn’t fall, she was pushed. And if anyone in this house had areasonto push your wife down those stairs,” says Kenzo, pointing his thumb and index finger like a gun, “it’syou.”
Chapter Eleven
MALCOLM WATCHESKENZO GO, TAKING THE LASTlead with him. Only it’s not the last one, is it? He sags back in Fletch’s chair, scrapes a hand over his face.
A good detective has to examine every angle. Even when it’s hard to look at.
Malcolm didn’t kill his wife.
He’s sure of that.
And yet. In stories like this, it’s almost always the spouse, isn’t it?
But he would never.Never.
Can’t even fathom it.
But. He racks his brain, trying to account for every moment of last night, and he can’t. There is a window—there are several windows, if he’s being honest with himself—during which the view gets hazy. He always enjoyed a tipple, and had always been able to hold his drink, but then again, he hadn’t drunk that much in years.
Not since the Edinburgh Incident, the memory of that shot through with holes as well.
But last night, he was just so angry. Shemadehim so angry. Knew exactly which buttons to push to get a rise, and he didn’t want to lose his temper, not with the editor around.
Still, he’s never laid a hand on her.
Never would.
How dare Kenzo even suggest such a thing? The idea’s enough to turn his stomach, make his anger flare again. He reaches for the whisky bottle on the desk and then stops, disgusted with himself.
Here it is, the source of all his troubles.
If he hadn’t been drinking, if they hadn’t fought, if Sienna hadn’t left the room, then she would still be here. He wouldn’t be alone.
Malcolm lobs the bottle across the room, hoping it will shatter when it hits the wooden floor, burst into a thousand shards of sharpened light. Instead, it thuds, and skids limply to a stop against the rug, as if to say,See?You can’t even break something right.
Malcolm shoves up to his feet and abandons the makeshift interrogation room, legs dragging, leaden, beneath him.
He’s no Leo Hardwick.
