Penelope crossed her arms. “In my room, making love to my husband. Would you like to question him too?”
I wrinkled my nose, wishing I didn’t have that visual in my head. “No need. I don’t need a fake alibi to prove you’re guilty.”
The threat pushed her to the brink of the truth. With a huff of disbelief, she downed the rest of her drink and leaned across the table.
“You want to know why I ran from the police?” she hissed, throwing her purse onto the table. “Because of this.”
She took out a small vial of white powder and pressed it against my palm. Carefully, I unscrewed the top.
“Cocaine,” I said, recognizing the scent. “Why do you have this?”
“I need it.” Penelope snatched the drugs away from me and returned it to her purse before anyone else in the bar could spot it. “It’s the only thing that keeps me sane.”
“You’re an addict.”
“I’m a mother,” she retorted. “We all deal with stress in different ways. Take your ridiculous accusations somewhere else. You’re not stupid enough to think I had anything to do with the crime around this hotel.”
I lay on the sofa in our suite, staring at the ceiling as I let my head filter through my various emotions. I perseverated on my short interrogation with Penelope, unable to shake the feeling that I’d embarrassed myself in front of her. Evelyn was right: I’d been grasping at straws. I needed something firm to dive into.
With renewed vigor, I gathered all of my notes on the strange occurrences around the Saint Angel, including Megan’s death, Angelica’s disappearance, and Jonathan’s untimely demise. I set everything in piles, trying to find a connection between the events. When that didn’t clear anything up, I went back to the waterlogged journal.
For the next two hours, I worked on decoding the most recent entry. Every ten minutes, I felt the urge to chuck my pen against the wall. The blocks of random letters were almost impossible to make sense of, due to the ever-changing nature of the writer’s code. My eyes felt like they were going to fall out of my head by the time I made sense of one word:
Soundproof.
Exhausted, I pulled open the balcony door and stepped outside to get some fresh air. As I gazed into the street, a familiar sight caught my attention. Down below, sitting outside the Saint Angel, was the homeless man I’d spotted on the security footage from the night Megan died. A dog sat at his side.
Making up my mind, I put on my coat and made my way down to the lobby. Outside, I looked both ways and crossed the street, approaching the man with caution. His dog lifted a lip and growled as I came closer, but the colorful scarf wrapped around the dog’s head made her much less scary.
“Easy, girl.” The man patted his pet, and the dog lowered her head to his knee. “That’s all right.”
“Sorry to bother you, sir,” I said. “But I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me.”
“I can move,” the man said, gathering his small collection of items. “No need to call the police. I’ll get out of your hair. I just like this overhang.” He gestured above, where a narrow roof jutted over the sidewalk, providing just enough coverage for the man and his dog to stay out of the snow.”
“No, please.” I held out my hands to stop him from moving. “Stay where you are. I’m not going to call the cops. Can I show you a video?”
When he nodded, I brought out my phone and let him watch the security footage.
“That’s you, right?” I asked.
“It sure is. Why do you ask?”
“Do you remember that night?” I pocketed the phone before he could see Megan’s shadow fall from above.
“Ma’am, all my nights tend to blur together. You’ll have to be more specific.”
I rubbed my hands together, hoping to warm them. The man in the street wore no gloves, yet he didn’t shiver. Used to the cold, perhaps.
“Did you see a woman go into the hotel across the street?” I asked. “Twenties, Caucasian. Blonde hair and tan skin. Ring a bell?”
His back straightened. “Yes, ma’am. She gave us this scarf.” He gestured to the vibrantly patterned cloth that kept the dog’s ears warm. “Lovely girl. Why?”
“She died,” I said shortly and pointed across to the alleyway. “Right over there. You were sitting here when it happened. Did you hear or see anything?”
The man lowered his face into his hands. “She died?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You can help me figure out what happened if you tell me what you saw.”
When the man looked up again, his eyes were wet. Even his dog looked sad. “I saw her a block or two that way,” he said, gesturing up the street. “She was alone. Looked a little drunk. The streets of this city aren’t always safe, so I followed her until she reached her hotel. Don’t think she even noticed.”
“And then?”
“Found this nook,” he said, indicating the overhang again. “It’s got better coverage than the other place I used to sleep. Between shelter from the snow and that nice lady’s scarf, I had the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a while. Didn’t have to worry about freezing to death.” He massaged the dog’s ears absentmindedly. “How did she die?”
“She fell,” I said. “From somewhere high. You probably would have heard it.”
He drew the dog closer to his side and bowed his head. “Oh, God. No, no.”
I knelt at his level. “Something the matter?”
When the man looked up again, a green tinge colored his skin. “I did hear it. It woke me up. I thought someone had thrown something heavy into a dumpster, but—it was her?”
“Did you see anyone?” I asked. “Or hear anything else?”
He shook his head. “I went back to sleep. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I assured him. “It’s not your fault.”
“I thought I kept her safe,” the man said, tears leaking
