Page 58 of The Tenant
Detective Garrison stands there for a moment, and I’m scared that he’s going to whip out a pair of handcuffs and slap them on my wrists andmakeme go down to the station with him. But he doesn’t do that. He just shakes his head.
“No,” he says, “you don’t have to. Not yet anyway.”
Not yet.That doesn’t sound good for me. But it’s better than the handcuffs.
“Okay then,” he says. “I’ll be on my way. Thank you for your time.”
I let out a breath as he turns around and heads toward my door. He’s leaving. Thank God he’s leaving. I dart ahead so that I can get the door open for him.
“I may have some more questions, Mr. Porter,” he tells me as I fumble with the locks. My fingers aren’t entirely functional right now. “Please make yourself available.”
“Right,” I manage. “Happy to help if I can.”
I’m not happy. I hope he never comes back.
I watch from the window by my doorway, making sure the detective disappears down the block, returning to his car. What the hell was that? Was Mr. Zimmerly really murdered? How could that be? Who would murder such an old man? I mean, another few months and nature would have probably done the job.
Unless…
Is it a coincidence that Mr. Zimmerly was killed so soon after I had a very visible altercation with him on the street? What would that detective have discovered if I let him take my fingerprints?
I nearly trip over my feet hurrying back to the kitchen. The first thing I do is toss that bloodstained paper towel deep in the trash. Then my gaze falls on the far end of the kitchen counter, where Krista had placed that antique clock after we got it at the flea market, back when life was still good.
There’s an empty space where the clock had sat.
Shit.
How long has that clock been missing? I don’t even know. The entire last week feels like a blur. But it’s clear the clock from our kitchen was the same one used to kill Mr. Zimmerly. Then the killer left it on his mantel, knowing that it would be identified as the murder weapon. It’s also covered in my fingerprints, I’m sure.
But maybe this isn’t as ominous as it seems. It’s entirely possible that…I don’t know…Krista gave the clock to Mr. Zimmerly as a gift. And it just happened to be the weapon that a startled burglar used to subdue him.
Except somehow, I don’t think that’s the case.
My heart is pounding as I return to the living room. I pull back the rug again to look down at the stain on the floor. Now that I have moistened it, it is very clearly redder than brown. And when I bring my nose close to the floorboards, it doesn’t smell anything like wine.
A key turns in the lock to the front door, and I jerk my head up. I manage to scramble to my feet just as Whitney enters the brownstone, wearing a light jacket. She raises her eyebrows at the sight of me.
“Hello, Blake,” she says. “Did I interrupt a special moment between you and the floor?”
Is it possible thatWhitneyis responsible for what happened to Mr. Zimmerly? Did she take that clock from our kitchen and bash him over the head with it to frame me? Despite everything, it’s very hard to imagine her doing something so diabolical and deliberate. But not impossible. You never know what someone’s capable of.
I point at the floorboards, grateful for my alcohol-induced lack of inhibitions. “What is this stain, Whitney?”
She plays along, stepping over to the spot where I am standing. She looks down at the stain, and a smile touches her lips. “Looks like it’s going to be a bitch to get out.”
“Did you do this?”
She blinks innocently. “Boy, you’re getting very paranoid, aren’t you? Perhaps you should cut back on the booze.”
“I hadthreebeers,” I say through my teeth. Okay, four. Maybe five. “Perhapsyoushould quit acting like a manipulative bitch.”
“What are you going to do to me?” She folds her arms across her chest, her eyes flashing. “The same thing you did to Mr. Zimmerly?”
My mouth falls open. Is she serious?
“Some detective talked to me when I was on my way out this morning.” She’s enjoying the expression on my face. “I made sure to let him know that Herb wasn’t your favorite person in the world.”
The surge of rage that I feel almost overwhelms me. Howdareshe implicate me with the police? Yeah, he pissed me off sometimes, but I wouldn’t come into his house and murder him, for crying out loud. “I wouldneverhave done anything to hurt Mr. Zimmerly. You can’t possibly think I’m capable of that!”
