A: Because I was injured at the scene.
Q: How were you injured?
A: Mr. Grayson hit me in the face.
Q: With his fist?
A: No. Detective Mendez put his hand on Mr. Grayson’s arm, you know, to encourage him to come away from hiswife’s body, and Mr. Grayson jerked his arm away, and I think he might have said “Fuck you” or “Fuck off” orwords to that effect.
Q: To Detective Mendez, who was asking him to step away from his dead wife’s body?
A: Yes.
Q: And then what happened?
A: He swung his arm back and his elbow made contact with my face, breaking my nose.
Q: Was it intentional?
A: He knew I was standing there. You tell me?
Q: Sorry, Officer Finnegan, but it’s my job to ask the questions, not answer them. I need to know whether you think it was intentional.
A: Then, yeah. In my opinion, it was intentional.
Lizzie
JULY 8, WEDNESDAY
I took a deep breath as I rang the doorbell to Sebe and Maude’s stately brownstone. It was on First Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues, not far from Zach’s and almost as impressive. As I waited for someone to answer, I tried to keep myself from imagining the upstairs goings-on at the party. Who could possibly survive a marriage where partners strayed openly? Who could possibly survive marriage, period?
I’d stopped at Café du Jour after leaving Hope First with the journal I’d swiped from Amanda’s office. It was indeed her most recent one, with detailed entries for each day since they’d arrived in Park Slope. There were also summaries of life with Case, how lonely and lost Amanda felt with him at camp, her intimidating running habits, the mundane details of her trying to handle foundation business, and chats she’d had with Carolyn. But, most importantly, there was a log of incidents—somebody calling and hanging up, following her.
In the entries I’d read so far, Amanda hadn’t identified this person. But she was scared of him, that was clear. Excellent reasonable doubt for Zach’s case, if I could eventually find a name. Luckily, I had time. A new suspect—no matter how compelling—wouldn’t be useful until trial.
When the door finally opened, there was an alarmingly good-looking man in the doorway.
“Hi?” he said like it was a question, pushing his thick black hairback with one hand, his eyes boring into me as he waited a beat for me to explain myself. “Can I help you?”
He had an accent, too. French, as Sarah had said. Sebe.
“I’m Zach Grayson’s lawyer,” I began, bracing myself for another hostile reception. “I called. Your wife said I could come by and ask some questions.”
“Of course, come in,” he said cordially. “Tragic, what happened. Amanda was a lovely person.”
“Lizzie Kitsakis,” I said, extending a hand once we were in the foyer.
“Sebastian Lagueux. But everyone calls me Sebe.” He shook my hand firmly before motioning me onward into the house. “Come have a seat in the living room.”
The inside of the house was as grand as the outside, with lots of dark polished wood and vibrant modern rugs. It had been renovated, but in a way that retained more of its historic charm than Zach’s house, which really was quite modern inside. The art was particularly eye-catching, especially a large blue and red abstract painting directly through the main entryway on the living room wall.
“That’s amazing,” I said.
Sebe laughed gently. “Ah, did Sarah tell you to say that?”
“He means he painted it.” When I turned, there was a striking woman, with reddish-brown hair falling in long tendrils, barefoot and barefaced. She was wearing a peasant-style wrap dress with a deep V-neck, so sheer it was almost see-through. “And Sebe’s not even a painter—he’s a doctor. A doctor and a painter and a tech start-up entrepreneur and an amateur horticulturist. He did this painting in one day with no planning. How annoying is that?” And she did seem actually annoyed.
“This is Zach’s lawyer, Maude,” Sebe said.
