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“He could be at work,” Trent said.
But Trent had spoken too soon. Shuffling feet were coming toward the door.
Something inside the apartment hit the floor and made a loud bang. Following that was a string of expletives.
The security chain slid aside, scraping against the door, and then it swung open. “Yeah?” A man in his late twenties, early thirties, stood in front of them, shirtless and wearing cotton shorts. His hair was sticking up, and he rubbed a hand over it, an obvious self-conscious move.
Amanda caught a blur of movement in the apartment behind him. A woman by the look of it.
Trent took the lead, holding up his badge. “Detectives Stenson and Steele.” He gestured toward Amanda. To the man, he said, “Are you Luis Navarro?”
“That’s me.”
“We need to talk to you about Felicity Kelley.”
He scratched his chest and drew back. “Ah, sure. Come in.” Luis showed them to the living area, which was a couch and a media stand with TV and a gaming console. Sparse furnishings, but a tornado had passed through, leaving articles of clothing draped on the cushions and floor. Shirts, shorts… a bra.
Luis snatched it up as if he just realized its presence and tucked it into a pocket of his shorts. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms. “What’s this about Flick? Felicity?”
“Why don’t you sit?” Trent gestured toward the couch, and Luis did as he’d suggested. Then, Trent laid out the notification matter of fact, “Felicity Kelley was murdered last night.”
“She was… was what now?” Luis rubbed his face as if he were just waking up and trying to shake the cobwebs.
Trent added, “She was found in her home this morning. Stabbed.”
Though Rideout hadn’t concluded it as the cause of death, Trent’s statement was accurate in a vague sense. A knife was plunged into her chest.
“I… Wow.” He flexed his hands on his forehead, massaging it as if an instant headache had moved in.
“That’s all? I tell you that your girlfriend is dead, and all you say is ‘wow’?” Trent’s voice was full of disgust.
“Ex-girlfriend.”
Navarro’s correction would have played right into Trent’s hands. He opened his mouth to speak just as a woman with blond hair, dressed in a man’s T-shirt and shorts, the drawstring pulled tight, slinked into the room. She dropped on the couch beside Luis and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Everything okay?” She never acknowledged Amanda or Trent with any eye contact.
“These are detectives,” Luis said. “They just told me that Flick has been murdered.” His voice broke on the last word—for show, shock, regret? Amanda wasn’t sure.
“Oh my god.” The woman’s eyes widened, and she clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Did you know Felicity Kelley?” Trent asked.
The woman shifted her blue eyes to Trent. “I knew of her. Didn’t really know her.”
The energy in the room changed, and Amanda had a hunch. “Were you together”—Amanda drew a finger from Luis to the woman and back—“when you and Felicity were?”
“Not that I’m proud of that fact,” Luis said.
“Hey!” The woman slapped his arm.
“Not that I’m not proud of you, just that I was cheating on Flick.”
That seemed to satisfy the woman as her body language softened—at least some.
“What’s your name?” Trent asked her for the record.
“Kaitlyn Avery.”
