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

“Yeah, you said that before. And guess what, I didn't believe you the first time. Your window looks out on her house. You never go to check the weather and see her walking to her car. Bullshit. You were in love with her. Watched her every chance you got. Then one night you go over there and strangle the shit out of her.”

“I have Henry Bins.”

“What?”

“You are Henry Bins,” quips Ray.

“Yes and I have Henry Bins. It's a sleeping disorder. I'm only awake for an hour a night. From 3 a.m. to 4 a.m.”

Both shake their heads like Parkinson's patients. And here I was, the one with the condition.

“Google it.” I look up at Ray. “Seriously, Google it. Or you can just wait and watch what happens to me in what I'm guessing is probably four minutes.”

“And what happens in four minutes, asshole?” asks Cal.

“My body will crumple like JFK and I will basically be in a coma for twenty-three hours. Then I will wake up at 3 a.m., be awake for an hour, then repeat.”

He pushes back from the table, his laughter riotous. “Well, if that isn't the biggest load of shit I've ever heard. Are you getting this, Ingrid? Are you listening to this shit?”

I stand up. “That's why my prints are on the closet in the guest bedroom. I had to find somewhere to sleep. I got stuck under the car trying to get her phone out and I didn't have time to make it back across the street.”

“You mean the cell phone you threw in a dumpster three blocks away?”

“What?”

“Yeah, idiot, you busted it up, but it still logged its last known GPS. Took two hours going through some trash, but we found it.”

My brain is whirring.

I lean against the wall.

Ray has been quiet for the last minute and I see her fiddling with her phone. “Um, Cal, you might want to come read this. I think this Henry Bins thing might actually be—”

:07

My head is pounding.

I lift my right arm up and touch it to my scalp. I can feel a clump of hair missing and a patch of gauze in its place. I lift my left arm to assist in the damage assessment, but am met with the clink of restraint. I open my eyes. My left arm is handcuffed to the hospital bed.

“What did you do?” asks a familiar voice. “Did you rob a twenty-four-hour bank?”

Sara is Japanese-American, a nurse at Alexandria Municipal Hospital, and an ex-girlfriend.