At the beginning of the call log, the calls are going back and forth, no particular pattern, once or twice a week. But after the texts to Katie start, the calls are only one-way—Jay phoning the other number. Once or twice, and then up to the day he died, ten or so times a day. Another girlfriend? Maybe that was Jay’s thing. He’s desperate to keep both secret so he gets the locker, and hides the phone? Why? Because now he’s two-timing with the dream girl? Because he doesn’t want to share? Because of the room trespasser? My mind’s spinning in circles, one thought replacing the other until they all blend together. I have the feeling if I could just get it to pause, I could see how everything connects, like slowing down a carousel at the fair to disentangle the animals. I look at the call log again, the urgency as the times get closer and closer together and they remain unanswered. Whoever Jay was calling, he was frantic or pissed or both.

I can’t hold this for myself any longer. Not now that I know my instinct was right about Katie. Right about there being more to this case than a random hit-and-run. Right about something amiss at Kap-O.

I pull out my own phone and message Teddy: “Meet for a coffee? Walker’s?”

A beat later, he texts me back: “Hey! Sure. When?”

“Now?”

This time he takes longer to respond. And I find myself attracted by the moving objects on the television. A survival instinct honed by my ancestors to spot saber-toothed tigers lurking in the tall grass now makes it impossible to look away from the news report of a five-year-old who shot his two-year-old sister in the head while playing with a gun. “He knew not to touch it,” the closed captions under his father’s face keep repeating.

My phone buzzes. Teddy: “I can be there in ten.”

He walks through the door in less than eight, gives me a wave, heads straight to the counter, and returns with a cup of coffee.

“I bought you a refill,” he says, swipes my cup, and fills it from the stationary pot with dancing goats.

“Thanks,” I say as he slides in across from me, one hand on his coffee, the other unwrapping the cellophane on a blueberry muffin.

“How’s everything going?”

A stab of anger under my ribs. How does he think it’s going?

“How’s Oliver?” I ask.

He sips his coffee.

“Fine,” he says after a pause. “Getting along well with everyone.”

By everyone, he means the brothers, the parents, Truman.

“Great,” I say, the word bitter on my tongue.