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Back 3 a.m.
Chapters (67)
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  67. 3:46 a.m.

“I’ve always just been a little OCD like that. We all have our quirks, am I right? What's yours, Cal?” I'm guessing it's his goatee. It is too perfect. Rulers, levels, and protractors have been consulted in its creation.

He isn't amused.

I put the key in the lock, twist and pull. I ease the door open four inches and Lassie darts through. With a puff of my cheeks, I say, “I can't really do this right now. How about tomorrow? Say 3:15?”

I don't wait for a response, though I’m fearing if there is one, it will be, “We have a warrant.”

A response does eventually come.

“Callie Freig.”

I'm dazed. Not because the name means anything to me — it's just a name, a woman's name, indistinguishable among any of the seven billion on this planet — but because she has been humanized. As in birth, a fat, crying, pink baby becomes Jake or Molly, the woman in death has become Callie.

The two detectives use my second of stunned silence to move past me. I sidestep them, and knowing they are too far in to forcibly remove them, I retreat two steps.

The phone—Callie Freig's phone—is on the table, next to the laptop.

“Hey, can you guys take your shoes off?”

Not an unreasonable request and both lean down to comply. The kitchen table is ten carpeted steps away, but it would look odd if I didn't also remove my shoes.

“Just set them outside.”

Slightly more unreasonable, but my only chance.

In the split second it takes for both to toss their shoes outside, I flick the beanie. It flips end over end, hits my laptop, then falls.

“What?” Ray asks, cutting her eyes at me. “What's so funny?”

“Nothing.” I'm just an amazing beanie tosser is all.

Flipping my shoes next to the door, I say, “So, who is Callie Freig?”

:05

“Callie Freig is the girl you've been watching out your window for the past three months,” Cal bellows.

I shake my head. “Sorry, buddy, but I've never seen her before.” I had, just not while she was alive.

“You've never seen a woman who has lived across the street from you for three months?” asks Ray.

“She's only lived there three months?”

Both Ray and Cal look confused by my question and I can't blame them. The woman could have lived there for the past six years and I might never have seen her.

“I never saw her,” I repeat.

“What about the Clemens?” asks Cal. “Have you seen them?”

“Who are the Clemens?”

“The people who own the house. The people who have lived there for the last ten years.”

“Oh, the Clemens—” I pause, “nope, not ringing any bells.”

“How long have you lived here?” asks Ray.

“What did it say on my lease?”

She glares at me. “Seven years.”

“That's correct.”

“And you've never seen the people that live in the house directly across from your window?” barks Cal.