“Likewise.” She pointed to my phone, tucked into the front pocket of my pants. “I texted you a hundred times. You never replied.”
“I was mad.”
A little laugh escaped from Evelyn’s lips. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” She leaned forward, into the bathroom, keeping me from shutting the door again. “So tell me about this Jonathan Godfrey.”
A clap of thunder woke me before my alarm the following morning. Then came a furious knocking against our door. Moaning, I rolled over and shook Evelyn awake.
“Ev,” I muttered. “It’s Marie again. Go see what she’s freaking out about now.”
Murmuring swears beneath her breath, Evelyn yanked on a pair of sweatpants, stepped into her slippers, and padded downstairs. Hushed voices floated up to the loft as I drifted in and out of sleep.
“Jack. Jack.”
Evelyn had come back upstairs to shake me awake. When I opened my eyes, I found her looking much paler than usual.
“The police are here,” she said. “They want to talk to you.”
“Why?”
She swallowed hard. “Jonathan Godfrey is dead.”
11
“Jonathan,” I repeated numbly. “Jonathan Godfrey? As in the Jonathan I spent most of yesterday evening with?”
“I’m assuming it’s the same guy,” Evelyn said. “Otherwise, why would they be here asking for you?”
I pinched the inside of my wrist to make sure this wasn’t some elaborate dream. The sharp pain brought clarity to my head. No, this was real life. Another loud knock echoed downstairs.
“Hello?” shouted a familiar voice. “I don’t have time to come back later.”
“Coming!” Evelyn called over the loft’s edge. She flung the covers off the bed and tossed the complimentary satin robe across my feet. “Get up. Don’t give them any reason to suspect you.” She hesitated. “You don’t know anything about this, do you?”
“No!” I hissed, wrapping the robe around me and tying it tightly. “He was alive and well last night.”
I couldn’t absorb the facts. Jonathan was dead. Jonathan was dead? It seemed impossible. Women were disappearing and dying in Chicago, not men. What did Jonathan Godfrey have to do with anything?
Downstairs, Detective Kate Arnold waited impatiently in the hallway. When she saw me, she nodded a curt greeting.
“Didn’t think we’d be meeting like this anytime soon,” she said.
I ushered her inside and closed the door behind her. As Evelyn started a pot of tea, Kate paced across the seating area. The sun had yet to rise, but a tinge of blue light rose from the horizon, coloring the room an ethereal shade not meant for human existence.
“What happened?” I asked. “Is Jonathan really dead?”
“One of his friends found him in his penthouse a few hours ago,” Kate explained. “Non-responsive. Looks like he dosed himself.”
“Drugs?”
Kate nodded. “No other damage to the body. No indicated medical conditions. It’s the only explanation.”
Stunned, I sat limply on the couch. “You think he committed suicide?”
“That’s what we’re trying to confirm,” Kate said. “His friend said he saw you with Jonathan last. Can you tell me anything about him?”
I wrapped a crocheted blanket around my shoulders, shivering despite the warmth of the suite. Evelyn set a cup of tea in between my hands and stood behind me in her bodyguard pose.
“I don’t—didn’t know him very well,” I began in a shaking voice. “We met a few days ago, and he seemed nice. Happy. I can’t imagine he’d want to kill himself.”
“He didn’t share any morbid plans with you?” Kate asked. “He never hinted about what he was going to do?”
I quickly shook my head. “No. The only death we talked about was Megan Hollows’s.”
“You shared that information with him?” Kate clicked her pen furiously. “I thought we agreed to keep those files between you and me. Can I not trust you to work with me on this case?”
“I didn’t show him the files,” I rectified. “He didn’t know that someone had been killed outside the hotel. He felt the manager should have notified him.”
“Did he seem overly upset about the death?”
“He was appropriately disgusted by the idea.”
Kate scribbled something on her notepad. “Did you happen to ask if he was in the area the evening Megan Hollows was killed?”
My spine stiffened. “Is this relevant to Jonathan’s death?”
“Two people died on this property in the last week,” Kate reminded me. “It could be a coincidence, but it’s my job to confirm that. If you’re as good an investigator as you say you are, you would have asked where Jonathan was that night.”
“We were kind of on a date.”
Evelyn squeezed my shoulder, a friendly reminder that she was standing behind me for support. I closed my eyes for a brief moment, drawing strength from Evelyn’s firm grasp.
“He said he had to pick his father up from a casino that night,” I relayed. “Apparently, Wolf got drunk and made a scene.”
“So he wasn’t at the Saint Angel.”
“He told me he didn’t see Megan in the alleyway,” I said. “So he must’ve arrived home before she fell. Speaking of which, any word on where she might have fallen from? She didn’t come from heaven.”
Kate rubbed her jaw. “I’ve spoken to the head of security for the building. Apparently, the Saint Angel doesn’t have cameras because it ‘ruins the historical aesthetic.’” She scoffed and shook her head. “Unbelievable. I’m trying to contact the owner, but this” —she consulted her notes— “Bianchi Group hardly seems to exist.”
“Same with the building next door,” I said. “The pharmacist said we’d need to contact the owner to get footage from the security cameras.”
“I’m working on that.” Kate flipped back a few pages in her notebook. “It says here the building is owned by a guy named Alexander Bond. No contact information. It’s like this whole block is living in another dimension where simple ownership laws don’t apply.” She cast her long dark hair over her shoulder. “Any other insights here?”
“Jonathan went to med school,” I said. “If he did this to himself, he would have known which drugs to use. But my first instinct says
