The next morning he was fidgety. There was nothing left to clean in the apartment. He did exercises, then paced the floor. He searched my windows like a trapped bird and wouldn’t look me straight in the eyes. Ruella, girl, I told myself, before you go off the deep end, you better find out more. Don’t stretch your heart to six-o’clock extension just yet. You better find out something more. And Jesse’s fear told me, yes, there’s a whole lot more here than Metro or Phillip. But then again there’s a lot more to me, too. Rooms, somewhere.

We’d call the police again. Find out if they had gotten anywhere on the case, if any one of us, Jesse included, knew any more. Jesse picked up the phone and dialed nervously. His voice cracked when he told the police who he was. I stood next to him, my arms about his waist, his fingers drumming the dial plate. I could hear the voice on the other end of the line.

“Sergeant Porter speaking.”

“This is Jesse Durand. I’m calling to see if, well, I’d like to know if, well, if you have any news on the Barthé murder on 12th Street?”

“You mean the attack by those teenagers?”

His fingers stopped drumming. “It was murder,” he said.

“Oh, yeah. Detective Stone is looking into that one,” the sergeant said. “I’ll put him on.”

We waited. Jesse looked at me. He looked back at the phone.

“Detective Stone here.”

“I’m Jesse Durand.”

“Yes, I have the Barthé file right before me. You’re the roommate, right?”

“Yes.”

“Listen. Could you come down here? I’d like to ask you a few more questions. It won’t take long. Say tomorrow, about three?”

Jesse looked at me. I nodded and he nodded.

“Yes, we’ll be there.”

“We?” asked the detective.

You’re never really prepared to just walk right into a precinct station. Inside, the glazed cinder-block walls and scuffed linoleum floors remind you of elementary school on the first day when you wanted to cry for Mama, or a hospital corridor without the smells of alcohol or medicine but you still have to get a needle, and it’ll hurt. Jesse walked ahead of me up to the desk officer and stated his business. Our business. He directed us to an inside office where Detective Stone sat behind a small oak desk like a teacher and fingered a stack of files. I could see notes on yellow paper and the curled edges of some 8 x 10 glossy photographs which must have shown how they found Metro stabbed and dirty with leaves and street garbage and gravel. I didn’t want to look too closely.

The detective rose from his desk and greeted Jesse. He turned to me with his eyebrows raised. “And you, Miss, Miss—”

“Ruella McPhee,” I said. “I’m a friend of Jesse’s.”