Seventy-eight

“Please don’t shoot!”

As Ethan threw up his hands, Mike closed in fast, leveling the barrel of his gun at Ethan’s head. The look on Mike’s face was ferocious.

“Who are you and why are you here?”

“My name is Ethan Humphrey, and I came to talk to Clare. She needs to hear what’s happening to me. I’m being set up!”

Ethan’s longish hair had been cut short, and he was obviously exhausted. His boyish features showed new lines etched into his face, as if he’d aged years in just a few days, and with his trembling lower lip, he looked as if he was about to cry.

“Don’t hurt him, Mike.”

“That is going to depend entirely on him,” Mike said, his gaze and gun remaining fixed on Ethan. “Dial 911.”

“No. Not yet. I think we should let Ethan talk.”

“Be reasonable, Clare. This man is accused of—”

“I know what he’s accused of. But with you here, he poses no threat. And if he actually risked breaking out of custody to speak with me, then I’d like to give him that chance.”

“It won’t take long,” Ethan promised. “I’m not a violent person. I have no intention of harming Clare. Or you. Or anyone. I didn’t kill anyone, either. What’s happening to me is completely absurd, Kafkaesque. It’s wrong. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

“Mike, let him come inside. It’s cold. The man is shivering…”

I wasn’t surprised. All he was wearing on this freezing fall night was a set of thin gray pajamas, sneakers without socks, and (for some reason) a long white lab coat.

“Please,” Ethan begged.

“All right,” Mike said, not happy about it. “Step inside slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them. And don’t make a single move in her direction, or I’m shooting to kill.”

“I promise, you won’t have to,” Ethan meekly replied.

Once inside, Ethan did exactly as Mike asked and placed his hands behind his back. Mike cuffed him, sat him down on a stool at the coffee bar, and insisted I stand on the other side of the counter several feet away while he stood behind Ethan with his weapon drawn.

“The man who handcuffed you is my fiancé,” I told our unexpected guest. “His name is Mike Quinn, and he’s a detective lieutenant with the NYPD.”

“Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant,” Ethan said.

“How did you get out?” Mike asked.

Ethan shrugged. “I faked abdominal pain at the rehab facility. They took me to an ER, which was very busy. While I was waiting for some test, I stole a doctor’s coat and slipped away.”

Mike grunted. “Not again.”

“Does that happen often?” I asked.

“A few times a year,” Mike said. “Now why are you here, Mr. Humphrey? Get to the point.”

“I’m here because Clare treated me like a human being.”

“What are you talking about?” Mike demanded.

“Clare knows.” Ethan held my gaze. “Do you remember the hotel suite at the Grand Maison? I was in horrible shape that night. They sent you in to evict me, but you were kind about it. You even said you were sorry that you couldn’t give me coffee.”

“I remember.”

“I’m relying on that sense of decency now, Clare. I know you’re a witness for the prosecution, but I’m here to ask you to be a witness for my defense.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you care about Jensen Van Dyne, and so do I. To be honest, I have great affection for the old poet. If you want to save Jensen’s life, then you need to listen to everything I have to say.”

Mike and I exchanged glances, and he lowered his weapon.

“Go on,” I said. “I’m listening.”

“I was arrested for Joan Gibson’s murder, but I did not do it. That’s the absolute truth, and I’ll prove it to you. When you found me sleeping on the couch in my apartment, was there any blood on me?”

“No. None.”

“Was my door wide open?”

“No, it was only slightly ajar. I used my elbow to push it open.”

“Well, I painted all night, and I kept my door wide open to clear away the smell of the linseed oil. I smoked some weed around seven am and fell asleep—next thing I know a cop is waking me and charging me with murder.”

“Okay,” I said. “Now I have some questions for you. Why was your inscribed lighter in Mr. Van Dyne’s apartment?”

“I left that lighter on my coffee table. That’s also where I left the mallet I use to align my canvas frames. The killer must have seen me passed out, took my lighter and mallet to link me to the crime scene, left a trail of blood, and closed my door nearly all the way to make the scene more plausible.”

“And who is this clever killer?” Mike asked.

He shook his head with sadness. “It’s someone Clare knows. Someone she met the same night that she helped me at the hotel.”

My mind raced back to that night. Ethan had left the hotel by the time I’d met his aunt Addy, which left only one other person. “Do you mean Blair?”

Ethan nodded. “It was my own cousin, Blair Woodbridge, who killed Joan Gibson and framed me for the murder. I’m sure of it.”