Land stared at me for a moment. “Huh,” he said finally. “Well, try and get some rest, Eve. We’ll let you know when we’ve got something, all right?”

“Okay.” I nodded. “Thanks.”

Land knocked twice on my roof in response and then edged around the front of my car and into the diner. It was the first time in years I didn’t have the urge to hurt him.

• • •

I waited until Cal left for work, watched him pull away from the curb and head west toward the police station. I’d parked a block away from his low-slung duplex, but still huddled down until I barely cleared the dashboard, although from what I could tell Cal never once glanced my way.

I’d let myself into Cal’s place a hundred times over the years. I had his key right next to my own on my worn key ring. But this morning felt different, covert and suspect. I didn’t exactly slink up to his doorway, but it wasn’t my usual casual stroll, either. I was very aware of myself and the world around me, the sound of my footsteps, the wind through the trees, the open blinds in Cal’s living room window, the sun hitting the back of my neck. The other half of Cal’s duplex was occupied by an elderly woman who rarely came outside. The most contact Cal generally had with her was when she banged on their shared wall when he had a football game turned up too loud. I didn’t think she’d be paying much attention to my approach. Still, I let myself in quickly, didn’t really take an easy breath until I had the door closed and locked behind me.

“This is stupid,” I said under my breath. What did I think I was doing? What did I actually think I was going to find? Crystal probably wasn’t even right about Cal hanging out with Matt. And there was probably a totally logical explanation for why Cal had lied about him and Land talking to Matt about Izzy. None of it had to mean anything. But what if it does? my mind whispered.

Cal’s place was nicer than mine by objective standards, bigger, slightly more updated. But he used it only as a place to shower and sleep, a way station. He spent most of his time at work or, before Junie died, at my apartment. There wasn’t much that marked this place as Cal’s. No desk with overflowing drawers or shelves of knickknacks perfect for concealment. I started in the kitchen, although it seemed an unlikely spot for anything suspect. It didn’t help that I had no idea what I was looking for. But half the kitchen drawers were empty, and the other half held standard kitchen fare: a spatula, a whisk with the tag still attached, a pot holder Junie had crocheted as a Christmas present a few years ago.

I moved on to Cal’s bedroom, ran my hand over the pale oak headboard and matching dresser I’d helped him pick out when he’d first moved in. He hadn’t cared about what we got, seemed content to sleep with his mattress on the floor and his clothes stored in milk crates, but I wanted him to have something homey, something to help turn this bland beige box of a room into his personal space. But other than the furniture, he’d never done much. No art on the walls. No clutter on the nightstand. Only a single framed picture of Junie and me on top of his dresser, both of us laughing, my arms encircling her from behind. Looking at Cal’s room made me sad in a way I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It was too empty, too blank. Like a life that was never fully lived.