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her?”
    â€œNo. I saw someone hit her. He was to the left of the window. All I saw was the hit—kind of a flash. A dark sleeve. And the way her head snapped back. She tried to cover her face, and he hit her again. I grabbed my phone. It was right on the nightstand, with the charger. I was going to call the police, and I looked out again, and she wasagainst the window—her back against the window. It blocked out everything else. Then the glass broke, and she fell. She fell, so fast. I didn’t see anything but her for a minute. I called the police, and when I looked back up at the window, the light was off. I couldn’t see anything.”
    â€œYou never saw her assailant?”
    â€œNo. Just her. I just saw her. But someone over there, in the building, someone must know him. Or some of her friends, her family. Someone must know him. He pushed her. Or maybe he didn’t mean to, but hit her again so hard it broke the glass and she fell. It doesn’t matter. He killed her, and someone knows him.”
    â€œWhat time did you first see her tonight?” Waterstone set the binoculars aside.
    â€œIt was right around one-forty. I looked at the time when I went to the window, thinking it was so late to be up, so I know it was one-forty, only a minute or so after when I saw her.”
    â€œAfter you called nine-one-one,” Fine began, “did you see anyone leave the building?”
    â€œNo, but I wasn’t looking. When she fell, I just froze for a minute.”
    â€œYour nine-one-one call came in at one-forty-four,” Fine told her. “How long after you saw her was she struck?”
    â€œIt had to be under a minute. I saw the couple two floors up come in—dressed up like for a fancy dinner party, and the . . .” Don’t say sexy naked gay guy. “The man on the twelfth floor had a friend over, then I saw her, so it was probably about one-forty-two or -three anyway when I saw her. If my watch is on the mark.”
    Fine took out her phone, swiped, held it out. “Do you recognize this man?”
    Lila studied the driver’s license photo. “That’s him! That’s the boyfriend. I’m sure of it. Ninety-nine percent—no, ninety-six percent—sure. You’ve already caught him. I’ll testify.”
    Sympathetic tears stung her eyes. “Whatever you need. He had no right to hurt her that way. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”
    â€œWe appreciate that, Ms. Emerson, but we won’t need you to testify against this individual.”
    â€œBut he . . . Did he confess?”
    â€œNot exactly.” Fine put her phone away. “He’s on his way to the morgue.”
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œIt appears the man you’ve seen with the victim pushed her out the window then sat down on the couch, put the barrel of a .32 in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”
    â€œOh. Oh God.” Staggering back, Lila dropped to the foot of the bed. “Oh God. He killed her, then himself.”
    â€œIt appears.”
    â€œWhy? Why would he do that?”
    â€œThat’s a question,” Fine said. “Let’s go over this again.”

    B y the time the police left, she’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours. She wanted to call Julie but stopped herself. Why start her best friend’s day off so horribly?
    She considered calling her mother—always a rock in a crisis—then ran through how it would go.
    After being supportive, sympathetic, there would come:
    Why do you live in New York, Lila-Lou? It’s so dangerous. Come live with me and your father (the Lieutenant Colonel, retired) in Juneau. As in Alaska.
    â€œI don’t want to talk about it again anyway. Just can’t say it all over again right now.”
    Instead she flopped down on the bed, still in her clothes, cuddled Thomas when he joined her.
    And to her surprise, dropped into sleep in