Chapter Ten
“HOW LONG IS THIS GOING TO TAKE?” asks Kenzo Gray.
“What’s wrong?” asks Malcolm, sipping his Scotch. “Somewhere to be?”
Kenzo eyes the safe in the corner, the countdown blinking on its front, then looks down at the coffee nested in one hand. “You can have till I finish this cup.”
Malcolm frowns, wishing he had a spotlight.
The overhead light in here is too warm, the light through the windows too diffuse, the room itself entirely too welcoming, and that must be why Kenzo looks too comfortable, sitting in the chair, one foot crossed against his knee.
It’s true, he doesn’t strike Malcolm as the type to murder competition, but then, there’s more than one reason to want someone dead.
“Well,” he says, leaning back against his desk (he’s come to think of it as his, these last few hours). “Things would go faster if you simply confessed.”
“And what exactly am I confessing to?”
Malcolm grips the filigreed lip of the desk as he leans forward. “To killing my wife.”
Kenzo sighs.
“Oh, but that’s right,” continues Malcolm. “You think it was just an accident. Or so you claim.”
“It was an educated guess, based on the circumstantial evidence.”
“Convenient, isn’t it? That you’re the only one with the expertise to say? Expertise you kept to yourself until it came in handy.”
“Because up until last night, no one had died.”
“But why?” presses Malcolm. “Why would you hide something so”—he almost says interesting, but catches himself—“important about yourself?”
Kenzo meets his gaze.
“Because authors are assholes,” he says flatly.
“They’re assholes about money. They’re assholes about sales.
They’re assholes about work. Specifically, they see having other work as a surrender, a mark of shame, even though almost no one can make it in this business without another source of income.
An affluent spouse, a plush inheritance, or yes—a day job.
” He blows out a breath. “Look, Malcolm. I’m sorry for your loss, I really am.
I didn’t get to know Sienna all that well, but I thought she was pretty great. ”
“I bet you did,” sneers Malcolm.
Kenzo cocks a brow in question, raising the espresso to his lips.
“I saw you two together. I saw the way you looked at her.”
Kenzo chokes on the coffee. Got you, thinks Malcolm smugly. Words can lie, but the body always tells the truth. (A good line, he makes a note to write it down, after this whole mess is sorted.) But as Kenzo wipes his mouth, Malcolm realizes, with frustration, that he’s trying to suppress a laugh.
“Is that supposed to be my motive? That I was hitting on your wife?”
“My guess is, she told you we were splitting up.”
“You told me,” counters Kenzo. “Remember? You told everyone.”
“Ah, but I think she told you first. And you, you tried it on. But she rejected your advances.”
“I wasn’t hitting on Sienna, Malcolm. I was talking to her. She was bright, and funny, and easy to talk to, and I liked her a hell of a lot more than I like you, but I can assure you, I had no interest in coming on to your wife.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m gay.”
“Ah, a convenient excuse.”
Kenzo stares at him, his smug calm giving way to something colder. “How so?”
“Well, it’s your word. You can’t exactly prove it.”
Kenzo holds Malcolm’s gaze. “You want a timeline of my coming out? A breakdown of my sexual history? A detailed description of the first time I let a guy suck my—”
Malcolm recoils. “No! That will not be necessary! And besides, it would prove nothing. A good writer knows how to spin a yarn.”
“Annnd, I think we’re done,” says Kenzo, getting to his feet.
“No, we’re not,” says Malcolm, but Kenzo only waves the empty coffee cup and heads for the door. Malcolm means to go after him, but the room wobbles a little when he pushes off the desk, so he decides it’s best to hold his ground. “You’re still a suspect.”
Kenzo pauses at the door. “You can play detective all you want, but if I were you, I’d want the rest of us to think it was an accident.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because if Sienna didn’t fall, she was pushed. And if anyone in this house had a reason to push your wife down those stairs,” says Kenzo, pointing his thumb and index finger like a gun, “it’s you.”