I gulped and sat back down on the couch. Why did that phrase make this horrible night feel even worse? “Murder scene?”

“Oh, that’s very well played,” he said. “Should’ve known you’d be trouble the moment I saw you.”

I scowled. “What are you talking about?”

“This innocent routine.” He strolled about the room with his hands in his pockets. “I’m certain the local police will be impressed with your little fainting act, but I saw you in that room with Karastovsky.”

Appalled, I pushed myself off the couch and cornered him. “You think I killed Abraham?”

“You have his blood on your hands.”

I looked at my hands. Maybe I wavered because he grabbed me by the shoulders, shook me and said, “Oh no, you don’t. No more fainting.”

I slapped his hands away. “Let go of me. I’m not going to faint.”

“Then stop breathing so heavily.”

“What is wrong with you?”

He leaned back against the counter and crossed his ankles nonchalantly. “You killed a man and there’s something wrong with me?”

“I didn’t kill anyone!”

“Tell it to the cops.”

“How dare you?” I sucked in a much-needed breath before continuing. “You don’t even know me. Abraham Karastovsky was my friend. My teacher. He-he was like my uncle. We talked tonight and he was so happy and-and then I found him in that room. He died in my arms.” I felt my throat close and had to stop. I put my hand over my eyes.

“Oh, here we go again,” he said. “I’m sure the local cops will be properly hoodwinked.”

I shrieked. I admit it. Then I gritted my teeth, looked him in the eye and said, “First of all, I never faint. Well, except for tonight. It was the blood. I have this thing about blood. Never mind, why am I explaining myself to you?”

“I have no idea.”

I paced away, then whipped around. “Second, I don’t give a damn what you think. I did not kill Abraham Karastovsky. I know the truth and that’s all that matters. And by the way, I’m thinking the cops are going to be interested in hearing your alibi, too, pal.”