repeatedly as a policeman. His deep voice echoed against the slanted walls of the house. The barrel of his gun was pointed and ready.
When he saw Sally, he paused. “Your roommate?”
“Yes.”
“She looks a lot like you.”
Reaching up, Michael grasped the wrist of the woman who hung from the heavy rope, trying to find a pulse. Nothing. Not even a flutter. Her skin felt as cold as a gutted trout. She smelled like feces. In his ten years on the Birmingham PD, Michael had only seen one other hanging. But he didn’t need a coroner to tell him this woman was deceased.
He glanced toward Brooke. Though she stood very still with the butcher knife clutched in her fist, her blue eyes were alive, darting in restless panic.
“We need to cut her down,” she said in a shaky voice. “She might just be unconscious. I know CPR.”
He suspected that she already knew her roommate was dead, but he didn’t feel it was the moment to state that painful truth out loud. “You said there was someone else in the house.”
“I think so.” She pointed toward the sliding glass doors. “Over there. I think he was dressed in black.”
“Gloves?”
“I don’t know.”
“How tall?”
“Don’t know. Average.”
“Did you recognize him?” She refused to look directly at him. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“It was all too fast.” Her features twisted in anguish. “I’m not sure he was really there.”
It took guts to admit that she was freaked out, but he hoped her possible delusion wasn’t symptomatic. “Has that happened to you before? Seeing things that aren’t there?”
“Yes.”
“Are you taking any medications?”
Her chin lifted. “We don’t have time to talk about any of that. We need to help Sally.”
Whether she was delusional or not, she was in serious denial about Sally’s condition. He wished that he knew more about Brooke Johnson, that he’d taken more time to research her personal history before he’d tracked her down. “First, we need to make sure there’s no one else in the house. I want you to come with me. We’ll start upstairs.”
Holding his gun at the ready, he climbed the staircase with Brooke right behind him. When he pushed open the door to the first bedroom, he saw chaos. Unmade bed. Curtains torn askew. Dirty dishes piled on the bedside table. Clothes draped everywhere. “Could be there was a struggle in here.”
“Actually,” Brooke said, “this is the way it always looks.”
Michael nodded, making a mental note to search Sally’s cluttered desktop later for a suicide note. “Okay, let’s check the other rooms.”
At the opposite end of the open balcony was Brooke’s neat room—a major contrast to the chaos left behind by her roommate. The open door of her closet revealed a neat row of plastic hangers with all the shirts facing the same direction. From the clean surface of her dresser and her desk with a closed laptop to the autumnal quilt on her double bed, this space reflected someone who valued order. When she reached down to straighten the brown rug on the hardwood floor beside the bed, he stopped her.
“Don’t touch anything. This is a crime scene.”
Her spine stiffened as if offended by his statement. “This is my home. It’s supposed to be a place where I feel safe.”
With her thick reddish-brown hair and delicate features, she was a whole lot more attractive than her driver’s license photo. Other than that obvious observation, he didn’t know what to make of Ms. Brooke Johnson. Though she was upset, she hadn’t lost control, which showed an admirable strength of character. On the other hand, she might have seen a man who wasn’t there.
She held herself with an aloof poise. Cool, but not cold—not an ice princess. Earlier today, when he talked to her at that high-priced accessory boutique, she’d been friendly, even laughed at his lame jokes. He’d liked her enough that he’d held off telling her why he sought her out. He had wanted to wait, to build trust. Now, he feared that his hesitation might have proved fatal for her roommate. If he had to guess, he would say that Sally’s death was not a suicide.
The wail of an approaching ambulance siren cut through the night. He looked toward the window. “The paramedics will be here real soon.”
She stepped into the hallway and leaned her back against the wall, her gaze fastened on the heavy rope tied around the banister. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“There’s nothing you could have done to save her.”
“I was so angry at her. She was driving me crazy with her clutter and her idiot boyfriends. I couldn’t stand it anymore.” Her words gushed out. Like a confession. “When I came home tonight, I was going to confront her. She had to shape up or get out. I should have been more understanding. I should have tried harder.”
“This isn’t your fault, Brooke.”
What he was about to tell her would make her feel a lot worse than she did right now, but there was no way to avoid the truth. The police would be here in minutes, and Michael was obligated to give them an explanation for why he’d shown up on Brooke’s doorstep.
He holstered his gun and stepped in front of her. “I want you to listen to me. Listen carefully.”
“Why is this happening? Why?”
“Brooke, look at me.”
When she lifted her face, he saw confusion and anger. He wished there was time to be gentle, but he’d missed that opportunity. “Three years ago in Atlanta,” he said, “you were on a jury.”
“What?” She shook her head as if his words were incomprehensible.
“You have to remember.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” He stepped back, aware that she still had the knife. “I don’t know who you are. Don’t care what you have to say.”
“You’ve got to hear this.”
“Leave me alone.”
When she started toward the stairs, he easily grabbed her wrist and gave it a flick. The butcher knife clattered to the hardwood floor. He held both her arms, forcing her to stand still. “Listen to me.”
Her teeth bared in a snarl. “Let go of me.”
“Do you remember the trial?”
“Armed robbery,” she snapped. “The guy was guilty.”
“His
