Page 18 of Her Last Doubt

"Mrs. Rivers said something about Marsh not having any consideration for anyone else in the building…and that some people used illness as an excuse to do whatever they liked. And Marsh told her to mind her own business and went back inside." He lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "It didn't go any further that day. But I heard through the building later on that they hadn't spoken since."

“And why are you only now mentioning it? Why not mention it to the cops?”

He looked embarrassed when he said, “I honestly didn’t even think about it again until a few hours ago, to tell you the truth. Like I said, when it happened, I didn’t really register it as that big of a deal.”

"How long ago did you say?"

"Three months, maybe four. I'm not certain. It was still damned hot outside, so maybe around June or July.”

Rachel held the cup in both hands and looked at him. He was telling it straight, with no particular agenda she could detect. There was also an undertone of embarrassment from not remembering the encounter sooner.

"Thank you," she said. "That's helpful."

He nodded and picked up the empty cups he'd been reorganizing and carried them toward the recycling bin near the mailboxes. He didn't linger. That, too, seemed characteristic of him.

Rachel went back to her chair and picked up her phone. Novak was looking at her over the top of his laptop screen. “What was that about?”

She ran through what Pruitt had told her while she eyed Gloria’s name on the resident list.

"Gloria Rivers," he said. “No flags from Purcell’s team.”

"I know. But I doubt she bothered to mention this little incident to them." Rachel pointed to her name on the list and said, “Unit 6-C. Ready to head back up?”

“Sure.” Novak tucked the laptop under his arm and stood. "Sixth floor?"

"Sixth floor." She looked over at Hale's door, still open four inches or so. She didn’t see the point in keeping him updated and, quite frankly his little sneaky ways were starting to piss her off. He'd find out everything they knew and what they were up to soon enough, and she didn't particularly feel like managing his anxiety about it on top of everything else.

They crossed the lobby toward the elevator, their steps quiet on the marble. The coffee was still warm in Rachel's cup and she carried it with her, unwilling to leave it behind. Behind them, the lobby settled back into its careful quiet, the brass carafe catching a glint of light from the lamp near the front window.

Rachel pushed the button for the elevator once again, trying to ignore the fact that the now-familiar act was making her feel like this case had her running in an endless loop.

A loop she feared may never truly come to an end.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Gloria Rivers answered the door in a housecoat and slippers. As introductions were made, she looked at their IDs with the careful attention of someone who had recently become suspicious of everything. That, or she was filing away as much as she could in her head for her next gossip session. According to the resident list, she was seventy-one. She was slight in a way that suggested she'd always been thin rather than recently diminished. Her white hair was cut short and close to her head, and her dark eyes were alert despite the worry in them. She stepped back and let them in while she put on a smile that did not seem entirely genuine.

The apartment was comfortable and lived-in, with more plants than Rachel had seen in any other unit in the building. They were on the windowsills, on the kitchen counter, on a low table near the radiator. Most of them were doing well. The couch had a blanket thrown over the back of it and a paperback on the cushion, face-down and splayed at the spine. The apartment had the quiet sort of quality that suggested things moved very slowly here.

"I spoke to the police already," Rivers said, settling into the armchair across from the couch. "Twice, actually."

"We know," Rachel said. "We've read those notes. We just have a few follow-up questions."

"Is there something they missed?"

"We're still building a picture of the building and the people in it. It helps to hear things directly."

Rivers accepted this and folded her hands in her lap—but she did look a little on edge about something. She answered the preliminary questions without hesitation: how long she'd lived here (eighteen years, all in unit 6-C), whether she lived alone (yes, since her husband passed six years ago), whether she'd known the three victims personally.

"Did you know the three victims personally?" Rachel asked after about ten minutes.

"Yes, but I knew Sylvia the best," Gloria said. "We'd have coffee some mornings, when we were both around. Not every week, but often enough. We knew each other's routines, I suppose. If I hadn't seen her by a certain point in the day, I'd wonder about her, and I think she felt the same about me." She looked at the plant on the windowsill for a moment. "Frank Deluca I barely knew beyond a hello in the elevator. And Margaret Osley I recognized by face and name, but we weren't friendly in any real way."

"I need to ask about the argument you had with her," Rachel said. "A few months ago, in the hallway."

Rivers looked at her without surprise, though there was a brief moment where she did look as if she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't—a kid with their hand in the cookie jar. "Someone told you about that?"

"Someone mentioned it, yes. And apparently, you didn’t tell the detectives who originally spoke with you."