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head. “He believed her?”
    “Looks that way.”
    “My God.” He palmed the ball and marched up to Burnett. “Why’d you bring up Henri telling me about his nightmare? What difference does it make?”
    “He only told a few people. I’m trying to figure out how this girl could have found out about it.”
    “You think I told her?” Sandstrom gave the gum a break.
    “Somebody did.”
    “You must think it was me. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”
    “Look,” Burnett said, “I have about a million questions and not one answer.”
    “Why would I? Henri and I were friends. What, you think just because I’m a basketball player and I don’t have a lofty IQ, I couldn’t hang around with someone like him?”
    “I’m just looking for answers.”
    “Maybe you think I hatched this plan to get Henri to off himself so Emma would come rushing back to me in her time of need.”
    “Henri’s dead and all you can think about is yourself.”
    “If I was suspicious of anyone,” Sandstrom said, “it’d be you. Yeah, I seen the way you look at her. Maybe you wanted him out of the way.”
    Burnett chose not to dignify the accusation with a reply.
    “So you don’t deny it?” Sandstrom dribbled the ball out beyond the three-point line and heaved up a shot. It swished through the hoop.
    “Maybe you can make it to his funeral,” Burnett said. “If you’re not out of town again.”
    * * *
    At five minutes before noon that same morning, Burnett rang the bell at apartment 412 in the off-campus building. A wiry, chestnut-haired young woman with thick-framed glasses opened the door, leaned forward, and embraced him.
    “What happened?” she asked.
    He and Susan Henrickson knew each other from a public speaking class they’d shared last semester. She also happened to live in the same building, and on the same floor, as Henri Laroche.
    “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” he said.
    “I’ve heard so many different stories. That he jumped. He fell by accident. There’s even a rumor somebody pushed him.”
    “I’m afraid he jumped.” The words sounded unreal as he spoke them.
    “Why?” she asked. “Why did he do that?”
    “Another question I’m trying to answer. Were you home yesterday?”
    “The whole day,” she said. “Studying for a chem test.”
    “You go out at all?”
    “Couple times. Stretch my legs. Grab some pizza.”
    “You notice a girl in the building? Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Brown hair. T-shirt and jeans.”
    Susan grabbed her chin, angled her head left, then shook it. “You think she had something to do with Henri’s death?”
    “She was hiding in his apartment when we got back from Charlie’s Place. She told him a crazy story that really upset him.”
    “Who is she? Did he know her?”
    “I’ve been here all morning. No one saw her come in. No one saw her leave.”
    “They have security cameras all over the building. One of them must have picked her up.”
    “I hope so,” he said, then added a sigh. He’d gotten little sleep last night, and the fact that no one in the building had seen Audrey bolstered his frustration. “I need to find her. She’s the key to why Henri took his life.”
    “Have you talked to the maintenance guys?” she asked.
    He shook his head. It was a good idea.
    “Talk to them,” Susan said. “They know more about what goes on in the building than anyone.”
    “I will.”
    “She didn’t just pop into his room and pop out again.”
    Part of him wanted to smile at her remark; part of him did not. “No, she didn’t,” was all he said.
    “I liked Henri. I know some people didn’t. But he was nice to me. Even helped me with my calculus homework a few times. I want to know what really happened.”
    “So do I.”
    Susan offered a cheerless smile and closed the door. Her apartment was his final stop on Henri’s floor. He stared down the straight, poorly-lit corridor. With mental blinders on, he trudged toward the elevator, but it made no