She’s watching me shrewdly, trying to figure out how much I know, or how much she can trick me into giving away. For example, will I confess that I met with the husband of the missing woman, even though the child was at home? I figure this is a detail I should keep to myself. Rule of thumb once you’re a felon—volunteer nothing, make the law enforcement officer do all the work.

“I believe it’s Sandra Jones,” she muses at last. “She teaches over at the middle school. Husband works nights. Tough gig, that. Her working days, the hubby working nights. I imagine she might have been feeling frustrated, too.”

I snap the elastic at my wrist. She hasn’t asked a question, so I’ll be damned if I answer.

“Kid’s pretty cute.”

I don’t say a word.

“Precocious, I understand. Loves to ride her trike all over the neighborhood. Maybe you’ve seen her a time or two?”

“See child, cross street,” I report. Snap, snap, snap.

“What were you doing last night, Aidan?”

“Already told you: nothin’.”

“Got an alibi for the nothing you were doing?”

“Sure, call Jerry Seinfeld. I hang out with him every night, seven P.M.”

“And after that?”

“Went to bed. Mechanics have an early start.”

“You went to bed alone?”

“Believe I already answered that, too.”

Now she arches a brow. “Really, Aidan, don’t dazzle me with your charm. Keep up this attitude, police are gonna toss you behind bars for sure.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Then convince me of it. Talk to me. Tell me all about this nothing you’ve been doing, because you’re right, Aidan—you’re a registered sex offender living five houses from where a woman has gone missing, and so far you’re looking pretty good for this.”

I lick my lips. Snap my band. Lick my lips. Snap my band.

I want to tell her about the car, but I don’t. Volunteering the car tidbit will bring the police to my house for sure. Better to wait, use the information as barter once they’ve hauled in my sorry ass for questioning and have me locked up in a holding cell. Better to talk when I can trade the information for freedom. Never give somethin’ for nothin’, another rule of thumb for the convicted felon.

“If I had done something,” I say at last, “then I damn well woulda put together a better story, don’t you think?”

“The lack of alibi is your alibi,” Colleen states drolly.

“Yeah, something like that.”

She rises off the sofa, and I have one second where I honestly feel relieved. I’m gonna survive after all.

Then she asks: “Can we walk outside?”

And I feel my good mood disappear just like that. “Why?”

“Nice night. I want to get some fresh air.”