“I’d feel pretty damn bad,” I said. “Bad enough to kill said someone, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, but I’m sure you wouldn’t. I didn’t either.” He ground out the butt in the mug. “Have you ever done something you regretted? Because if you say you haven’t, you’re a liar. And if you say you have, and your life didn’t go to hell because of it, then you are one lucky human being.”
I couldn’t argue with him there. He had a point. Life could go sideways in the blink of an eye, and playing it safe was no guarantee against tragedy. I glanced at Trey. He was listening, calmer now.
“Tell me what happened that morning,” he said.
“You know what happened.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
Nick sighed, patting down his pockets for a fresh cigarette. He fished one out and lit it, then told the story of his wife’s murder, starting from the top. It was a recitation, dispassionate, like he’d memorized the sequence of events.
“And then I got the call. I went home and the police intercepted me.” He pointed the cigarette toward Trey. “The police being you. And then you handed me over to somebody in a suit, and he told me that Jessica was dead. And I don’t remember much else except the dawning realization that no matter what I did or said from that moment on, my life was ruined.”
His life. He’d just learned that someone had murdered his wife, and all he could think about was himself. Not his dead brutalized wife. Not even his surely panicked lover. Himself.
“They wouldn’t let me see her,” he said. “But that’s SOP, isn’t it? And then they asked me the same questions over and over.”
“And you lied.”
“At first. But only to protect Addison.”
Bullshit, I thought. You lied because you worried that if the cops knew you’d been off banging your hot sidepiece, you would look like Guilty Party Numero Uno. You were trying to keep that secret in your back pocket.
“And then you realized you needed her alibi,” Trey said.
“Addison insisted. And she wasn’t lying, if that’s what you’re implying.”
Trey remained unmoved. “I’m establishing the facts. And the fact is, you had no solid alibi except for her testimony.”
“I didn’t know I’d need one.”
Nick took one final drag on the cigarette, then dropped it into the mug. He reached for the pack as if he were about to fire up a third, but changed his mind. He folded his hands on his stomach instead, interlaced his fingers. His foot did not stop bouncing, and he continuously swiveled in the salon chair, back and forth, back and forth.
Trey assessed his every move. Not once had his expression flared with that gotcha look, which meant that every word Nick had spoken had been the truth. So far.
“Tell me about Friday night,” Trey said.
“It was late, around ten, I guess. I didn’t look at the clock, but that’s what Quint said. Anyway, just when I got on the patio, I heard the shot.”
“Only one?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“I ran back inside.”
I was itching to jump in, literally itching with the fierce desire to pull apart his story layer by layer and see what twitched underneath. But I wasn’t a part of this. This had nothing to do with me, at all.
Trey didn’t move from his position in the corner. “Did you see anyone?”
“No.”
“Anything suspicious?”
“No.”
“Do you live there alone?”
“Nobody lives there. Addison and I have a place closer to the studio—that’s where she was when all this happened, at home working. The house technically belongs to Talbot Creative now, but Quint has it on the market. There’s a staging team coming tomorrow to get it ready. That’s why Quint was there Friday night, supervising the real estate crew. The Buckwild people left it in a big mess.”
Trey looked confused. “The what people?”
“Buckwild in Buckhead. You know.”
Now Trey looked utterly baffled. But I knew exactly what Nick was talking about.
“It’s a reality show,” I said. “Lasted three seasons before it was canceled this year. They imported twelve rural Southerners into a fancy Buckhead mansion and tried to teach them to function in the upper echelons of Atlanta society. Hilarity ensued.” I looked at Nick. “That was your place they used?”
“’Used’ is the right word. We tried to sell it after the grand jury hearing—no luck—so Quint leased it to the Buckwild production company. But now that’s canceled, and he’s trying to get it ready to show again. Anyway, he needed me to fill out some paperwork, so I went. But he told me I couldn’t smoke in the house, so I went outside.”
“Where outside?” Trey said.
“By the pool. Next to the diving board.”
“Were the lights on?”
“Outside? No.”
“What about in the pool?”
He frowned. “Now that you mention it, yeah. Why is that important?”
“I don’t know if it is.”
Trey had his arms folded, his expression curious, calm. Some part of his brain was assembling a blueprint and a timeline, and every detail Nick shared went into its proper position.
“Continue,” he said.
Nick shrugged. “That’s it. I was standing there, cigarette in my mouth. I dug in my pocket for my lighter, heard this crack, high-pitched. And then this whistling hiss like something straight outta Gunsmoke.”
Trey slid a look my way. Nick was describing a sonic wave. Suddenly, his story seemed much more plausible.
“And you recognized that as a gunshot?” Trey said.
“Oh yeah. I hear them all the time on the set. This one was far away though, not close. Not like right beside me. Which is why I thought sniper.” He pointed at Trey. “Which is why I thought you.”
Trey ignored the implication. “What did you do next?”
“I ran back inside, what do you think I did?”
Trey knew the rest of the story from Finn. Nick’s brother had searched for the bullet, found nothing. Trey didn’t have any further questions, but I sure did, and I couldn’t keep them inside
