And Leave Her Lay Dying by John Lawrence Reynolds

over our bedroom. Can hear everybody. I think I heard her go out later but I’m not sure.”
    McGuire scanned the room, cluttered with cheap souvenirs and old photographs. Amanda Reich continued to stare blankly out the window at the sky. He walked around the room, touching the worn furniture, glancing at the sad stains on the wallpaper. “Tell me about Jennifer Cornell,” he said finally. “What kind of person was she?”
    â€œI told you. A bitch.”
    â€œWhat else? Was she punctual? Tidy? Did she have lots of friends?”
    The woman’s body shook in a small spasm of laughter. “She took a man upstairs every now and then. Nobody could stand her for more than one night, way I see it. One time we nearly had to call the cops. Three in the morning and she’s throwing stuff—glasses, books, I don’t know what all—at this guy going down the stairs. And screaming at him. Woman had a mouth like a backed-up toilet.”
    â€œDo you know who this man was?”
    â€œSome guy. Drove one of them expensive German cars.”
    â€œMercedes?”
    â€œThe other one.”
    â€œBMW?”
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œDo you remember the colour?”
    â€œWhite. I remember it was white. Had one of them funny things on the back. Whattaya call it?”
    â€œA spoiler?”
    â€œSomething like that. Looked like a race car. Parked it right in front of here. Didn’t give a damn if he got a ticket. Some people have money to throw away.”
    McGuire settled himself on an arm of the sofa and smiled. She knows everything, he realized. She listens and she watches and she knows everything that goes on around here. “How many days before the murder did this happen?” he asked.
    She kept her eyes on the window but her aggressive mood had mellowed to something more passive. Acceptance, perhaps. Or sadness. “Two, maybe three weeks,” she replied.
    â€œAnd what was this man saying to her when she was screaming at him. Do you remember?”
    â€œSomething about her being lousy. And that she was through. ‘You’re through! You’re through!’ he kept yelling at her.”
    â€œAny idea what that meant?”
    She shook her head. “That dummy, he went—”
    â€œWho?” McGuire interrupted.
    â€œMy husband,” she snapped. “He went out in the hall and told them to shut up or he’d call the cops. She went back in her room and slammed the door. Guy with the car, he just went out and drove away. Last I seen of him.”
    â€œHow about her brother?” McGuire asked. “Wasn’t he staying here for the last two weeks before she died?”
    For the first time since McGuire entered the room, she turned to face him. “Him, he was a weird one,” she said. “Scared me. Passed him on the stairs once and damn near jumped out of my skin.”
    â€œWhy?”
    She studied her hands. “Don’t know. Something about him wasn’t right.”
    â€œCan you describe him for me?”
    She looked out the window again. “About your height. Maybe thirty-seven, thirty-eight years old. Good build. Had a moustache.”
    â€œYou said something about him wasn’t right. What did you mean by that?”
    At first, McGuire thought she hadn’t heard him, or was ignoring him. Then she said, “He looked familiar. Like I’d seen him somewhere before in the newspapers or on the TV or something. Reminded me of somebody famous. And he always avoided me. Once I was on the stairs and he came out of her room and saw me and went right back in again, and I heard them arguing through the door.” Her chest heaved and she lowered her head. “Besides. Maybe it’s because of what happened after.”
    â€œAfter what?”
    â€œAfter the bitch died. That’s when he started his drinking again.”
    McGuire was confused. “Who?”
    â€œThat dummy. My husband.