The server returned and asked if they needed refills. The good-looking detective waited on Caitlin’s answer. She’d spent most of the day with the man, and part of her guessed she could spend the night with him as well, but the other part was deep in a tunnel.

“Better call it a night.”

*   *   *

After Greenwood left, Caitlin went to the bar to do something stupid. She’d walked the same paths, seen the same sights, but hadn’t yet lived in Angela Chapman’s moment. Her order didn’t shock the bartender, but he stayed to watch her drink the Three Wisemen. One shot of Jack, one shot of Johnnie, one shot of Jim.

Goodbye, balance; hello, night air.

Mary’s guesthouse was a mile southeast. Caitlin turned north on Walnut, threw her arms up. “Drunk woman walking, Bloomington, all by herself.”

No one yelled back. She checked her phone: 1:08 AM. Slightly earlier than Chapman the night she went missing but in the same tree-lined neighborhood. New office buildings and townhouses filled the gaps in Caitlin’s memory. A few vehicles passed from behind. An off-duty taxi, a city bus, a single Harley Davidson. She felt good but noticed the distance between streetlights had increased. Like the night before, dark patches of green trees, no big deal with buddies at your side, now appeared sinister.

She checked a map on her phone. Only half a mile before a return to decent lighting and the path toward the last place Angela Chapman was seen alive.

She picked up her pace, saw a railroad bridge looming in the darkness. A single streetlight near the rusted steel beams of the wide overpass didn’t do anything but blind Caitlin to what lay in wait. She passed under the lonely cone of light, waited for her eyes to adjust. The three shots of bravery now felt like a punch in the stomach. She felt her heart rate increase. Beyond the overpass, another streetlight waited three hundred feet away. She broke into a jog. Twenty feet from the bridge, her jog turned into a sprint.

“I got this,” she said.

Her shoes hitting the sidewalk echoed under the bridge, but nothing would touch her. She threw her arms up, yelled again. “Drunk woman running, Bloomington, all by herself!”

She passed under the overpass, didn’t slow down. The night air hit her eyes and tears leaked at the corners, but she pounded on until the next streetlight welcomed her back to safety. She leaned over, let her breaths deepen. Her heart stopped punching her. She straightened up, started walking north.

A horn blared from behind. She turned, saw a blue sedan veer far into the left lane toward her spot on the sidewalk.

“Hey lady,” a voice yelled, “show us your tits.”