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sounded again.
    Moments later he walked back in with a weary-looking man of about forty and a sharp-looking woman a decade younger. “Detectives Waterstone and Fine. They’re going to talk to you now. You take care, Ms. Emerson.”
    â€œOh, you’re leaving? Thanks for . . . well, thanks. Maybe I’ll grab a slice in your brother’s restaurant.”
    â€œYou do that. Detectives.”
    When he left her alone with them the nerves he’d calmed sprang back.
    â€œI have coffee.”
    â€œWouldn’t mind that,” Fine said. She crouched down to pet the cat. “Pretty cat.”
    â€œYeah. Um, how do you take the coffee?”
    â€œBlack’s fine for both of us. You’re staying here while the Kilderbrands are in France?”
    â€œThat’s right.” Better, Lila thought, with her hands busy. “I’m a house-sitter.”
    â€œYou stay in other people’s houses for a living?” Waterstone asked.
    â€œNot so much for a living—it’s more an adventure. I write for a living. Enough of a living.”
    â€œHow long have you been staying here?” Waterstone asked.
    â€œA week. Sorry, a week and two days now since it’s today. I’m here three weeks altogether while they’re visiting friends and family in France.”
    â€œHave you stayed here before?”
    â€œNo, first-time clients.”
    â€œAnd your address?”
    â€œI don’t have one, really. I bunk with a friend if I’m not working, but that’s rare. I stay busy.”
    â€œYou don’t have a place of your own?” Fine qualified.
    â€œNo. Low overhead. But I use my friend Julie Bryant’s address for official things, for mail.” She gave them another address in Chelsea. “I stay there sometimes, between jobs.”
    â€œHuh. Why don’t you show us where you were when you witnessed the incident?”
    â€œThis way. I was getting ready for bed, but a little wired up. I should tell you I had a friend over—Julie, actually—and we had some wine. A lot of wine, to be honest about it, and I was wired up some, so I picked up my binoculars and looked out to see the window show.”
    â€œBinoculars,” Waterstone repeated.
    â€œThese.” She stepped over to the bedroom window, picked them up. “I take them with me everywhere. I stay in different neighborhoodsin New York and, well, everywhere. I travel. Just got back from a job in Rome.”
    â€œSomebody in Rome hired you to watch their house?”
    â€œFlat in this case,” she told Fine. “Yeah. It’s a lot of word of mouth, client recommendation, and I have a blog. I like to watch people, think up stories about them. It’s spying,” she said flatly. “I don’t think of it that way, honestly don’t mean it that way, but it’s spying. It’s just . . . all those windows are like little worlds.”
    Waterstone took the glasses, held them up as he studied the building. “You’ve got a pretty good eye line.”
    â€œThey fought a lot, or had intense conversations, made up a lot.”
    â€œWho?” Fine asked.
    â€œBlondie and Mr. Slick. I named them that. It was her place because, well, it had a female vibe to it, but he stayed there every night—since I’ve been here anyway.”
    â€œCan you describe him?”
    She nodded at Waterstone. “A little taller than her—maybe six-one? Solid build—buff, so probably about one-ninety—brown hair, wavy. Dimples that popped out when he smiled. Late twenties, maybe. Very attractive.”
    â€œWhat exactly did you see tonight?”
    â€œI could see her—great little black dress, her hair falling out of an updo. She was crying. It looked like she was crying, and wiping at the tears, and talking fast. Pleading. That’s how it looked to me. Then I saw him hit her.”
    â€œYou saw the man who hit