“Come on, just tell me what happened?” I whispered. “Just a few more clues. I’m good at puzzles.”

But the silence grew mutinous, so I gave up, turned the car around, and headed home.

Ten minutes later, I parked in my spot and crossed the lot. As I pressed the keys of my security pad, my phone rang. The unexpected shrill startled me, and I forgot where I was in the sequence. When I pressed “Enter,” the system denied me. My phone kept ringing. I didn’t recognize the number.

Hands trembling, I entered the security code again, and the door opened this time. Inside, I glanced around the darkened parking lot, half expecting to see David staring back at me. I see you. I know you’ve been following me.

A chill oozed over my muscles as I gripped the phone and stared at the number. Finally, the ringing stopped, and I waited for a voice mail message to pop up. Nothing appeared. Wrong number. Maybe.

Back up on my floor, I glanced toward Alan’s door and saw the light trickling out. Footsteps echoed inside his apartment. The man never slept. Pot calling the kettle black.

Inside my apartment, I flipped on a light and went straight to my computer, where I searched the phone number of the call. There was no listing for a business or person. Wrong number. Spam. A drunk dialer.

Or had David crossed paths with Clare at the art exhibit or me at Brit’s university? I’d been drunk my one night at Brit’s school and passed out. When I’d woken up, I’d been in a dorm room by myself. I’d been fully dressed, and the bed was neatly made, but nothing about how I’d gotten there felt right.

Random dots could be connected a thousand different wrong ways.

Playing devil’s advocate, maybe David really had driven through my parking lot tonight because Brit had given him something to pass on to me. Maybe he didn’t see my car, so he kept going.

It happened. All logical. Made sense.

Don’t borrow trouble.

But my identical twin had been murdered. I could’ve died in a car accident two months ago minutes from David’s townhome.

I dialed Detective Richards’s number. The call went to voice mail, and I could almost imagine him rolling over, glancing at my name on his phone, and cursing as he turned away.

“This is Detective Richards.” In the recorded message, his enunciation was clear, concise. “Leave a message at the tone.”

“Detective Richards, I just wanted to run something by you. A person no one’s ever thought about. Call me when you can.”