Bree hesitated. Clearly, she did not want to tell Monica about Spencer’s death while they stood on the doorstep.
“Can we come inside?” Matt asked in a gentle voice.
“OK.” Though Monica sounded reluctant, she opened the door wider and moved back to give them room.
Bree and Matt stepped across the threshold into a sleek, modern space that looked weirdly perfect, more like a photo shoot than a living room.
Monica closed the door. “Please sit down.”
She crossed the room, her steps gliding, as if she were walking the runway instead of pale gray wall-to-wall. She stopped in front of a white leather couch. Elegantly folding her long limbs, she sank onto the cushion, pulled a throw pillow onto her lap, and hugged it.
Bree sat next to her. Matt eased into a pencil-legged chair, almost surprised it held his weight. Those skinny legs must be titanium.
Bree rested her folded hands on her knees. “Have you seen the news, ma’am?”
“No.” Monica shook her head. “I was in a bathing-suit shoot all day yesterday. The wind machine kept malfunctioning. When they got it running, it would only function on high. The director yelled for hours. I thought his head was going to explode. What a disaster.” She touched her temple, as if the memory gave her a headache. “I got home late, went straight to bed, and slept in this morning. I have to work again tomorrow, and I needed the rest.”
“Spencer LaForge died yesterday evening,” Bree said. Her words sounded more like a death notification than questioning a witness.
“Spencer is dead?” Shock turned Monica’s expression blank for a few seconds as she seemed to process the news. Then she burst into tears.
Without a word, Matt picked up a box of tissues from an end table and handed it to her.
She accepted the box and sobbed, “Thank you,” in a breaking voice.
“We’re sorry for your loss,” Matt said.
Monica and Spencer had dated only a few times, but the news of his death had upset her. Yet there was something about her emotions that didn’t feel entirely genuine. Tears poured from her eyes, but her face remained strangely devoid of expression. Monica was a model, but maybe she was a decent actress too. Her shock could be fake. Something about her felt off. Usually, Matt was better at reading people’s emotions.
“I’m sorry.” Her breaths hitched. She plucked a tissue from the box and dried her eyes. Composing herself with a deep, shaky inhalation, she brushed a strand of long hair off her face. “What happened to him?”
“He was killed.” Bree stuck with vague.
“Killed?” Monica’s voice squeaked. “In a car accident or something?”
“No, ma’am.” Bree paused, as if deciding how much information to give her. “He was murdered.”
“Murdered?” Monica sobbed.
She cried into a tissue for a few seconds, then shuddered and lifted her head. Somehow, crying didn’t make her eyes red or puffy. Her skin was still flawless. She managed to look both devastated and camera-ready.
She pulled an elastic band off her wrist, gathered her long hair, and arranged it in a bun on top of her head. Long tendrils framed her face. “He broke off our relationship last week.” More tears threatened to spill over. Her eyes went bright, sparking with anger before shifting back into sadness.
“Did he say why?” Bree asked.
She shook her head hard. “Not really. He said some stuff about our chemistry not feeling strong enough.” Her face tightened, and her next words sounded bitter. “But our chemistry was good enough to sleep with me.”
Bree made a noncommittal yet empathetic noise. “How many dates did you have with him?”
Instead of answering, Monica started sobbing again. Was she trying to evade the question? Again, her response didn’t feel entirely authentic, and Matt couldn’t identify why.
Bree waited for Monica to compose herself, then repeated the question. “How many times did you go out with Spencer?”
“Five.” Monica sniffed. “But to me, it felt like more. Then, after our fifth date, he sent me a text saying we were through. He wasn’t feeling it. Can you believe that? He broke up with me in a damned text.” She looked to Matt.
“That was rude,” he said, commiserating. Then took a poke at her anger. “Did that make you mad?”
“I would have been furious,” Bree agreed.
“Of course I was mad,” Monica snapped. Then she pressed a knuckle to her mouth. “I was angry and sad and depressed.” She swiped a tear off her cheek. “I’ve never been dumped before.”
Now that Matt could believe.
“I can’t believe he’s dead,” Monica said.
Bree jumped in. “Did you go to his house?”
Monica nodded at her. “Twice.”
“Did you see his snakes?” Matt asked.
She frowned, her eyes narrowing. Her words were clipped, as if she were offended. “I hope that isn’t an inappropriate euphemism.”
“No, ma’am,” Matt said with no trace of humor. He held eye contact. “Spencer had a reptile collection, including snakes.”
“Oh.” Monica shuddered. “I didn’t see one, and he never mentioned having any weird collection.”
“You said you were on a shoot all day yesterday. What time did you finish?” Bree kept her voice casual, but the question was key.
Monica wasn’t fooled. Her tears shut off like she’d tightened a spigot. “Are you asking me for an alibi?”
“It would be great if you had one.” Bree lifted a shoulder. “The more people I can rule out quickly, the better. When and where was the shoot?”
“We worked from eight in the morning until nine last night.” Monica gave them the address of a studio in an office park.
“You were there all day?” Bree asked.
Monica nodded. Matt pulled his phone from his pocket, opened the note app, and typed in the address. “Can you give us a name or two, people who could corroborate your hours?”
“Sure.” Monica picked up her phone from the coffee table and read off two names and phone numbers. “They’re both models who worked the shoot with me.”
“Thank you.” Matt noted the names and numbers, then dropped his cell phone back into his pocket. “Did Spencer ever mention getting a threat or having an altercation?”
Monica lowered her phone to her lap. “No, but I’m not sure how honest he really was with me. The breakup felt . . . insincere. One week he was falling in love with me. After we slept together twice, he was over me. Frankly, I felt used.”
Bree wrapped up the interview, and they returned to her vehicle. She slid behind the wheel. “Real or fake tears?”
“Both.” In the passenger seat, Matt fastened his seat belt. “She was mad and sad about the breakup. The tears over his death didn’t feel as authentic.”
“That was my impression too.” Bree glanced over. “I’m not a good judge of tears, though.”
Matt shrugged. “While I was growing up, the house was full of Cady’s friends. When they were teenagers, someone was always crying. In my limited experience, real tears tend to be messy. Ms. Linfield didn’t smudge her lipstick or mascara.”