Coolis not the word I would use to describe that, but okay. It is so hard to keep up with her; I don’t know how Louie does it. Maybe he doesn’t. Either way, her reminder of last night makes me tense up, despite her effervescent personality.
“Straight out of a crime novel,” she continues. “Too bad you don’t write suspense, Petra. That could have been some good motivation.”
I do write suspense. “Mari, what kind of books do you think I write?”
She shrugs. “Romance? I don’t know, I should probably read one. Which one do you recommend?”
“None of them,” I say honestly. “They are suspense novels, though, but there are so many other books I’d recommend to you if you like that genre.”
Mari swats at my arm. “Stop that self-deprecation. It is so unattractive.”
I didn’t even realize I was being self-deprecating. I call it honesty.
“Let’s try having this conversation again,” she says. She straightens up, eyeing me. “Petra, which of your books do you suggest I read?”
She’s right. I never answer this question with pride, so I commit to at least trying. Maybe it will improve my current attitude toward my career.
“Start from the beginning,” I say, feigning confidence. “The release order is on my website. If you like the first one, you’ll be able to see my writing progress as you work your way through the books.”
Mari grins. “That’s better. I’ll visit your website. What is it? The Pitiful Petra dot com?”
She laughs at her own joke, but then says “Kidding” before I have time to find the humor in it. “You just act so pitiful when it comes to your career. I’m gonna compliment that pitiful out of you before you leave here,” she says as she stands. “Let me know if you ever need a shopping break. I’m going estate hunting in the morning if you’re interested.”
“Not sure I need the distraction yet,” I admit.
“I’ll text you before I leave, just in case,” she says. She grabs her pan and heads toward the door. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and Louie will have a heart attack so we have an excuse to call the cops over here again.”
“Jesus, Mari.”
“Amildone,” she says, dismissively. “I don’t want him to die. Who would drive me to Los Angeles for all my auditions?” She winks at me and then closes the door behind her.
I stand up and lock it, then walk back over to the table.
I pick up the business card sitting next to my laptop. I scroll my thumb over Detective Saint’s name, wondering what people call him. There are so many possibilities, but I imagine I’d call him Saint if I knew him on a more intimate level.
Do people call him Nathaniel? It seems too formal, too stiff for someone who carried himself with such confidence and ease.
Maybe they call him Nathan, a little more approachable, relaxed. Or maybe he’s just Nate to those closest to him. Or is he simplyDetectiveto everyone?
Whatever people call him, I’ve been anxiously waiting for him to show back up. I should have asked Mari if they mentioned to her that they might return for a statement.
Surely, he’d need to take my statement, right? Last night, he said he’d be in touch today, or thatsomeonefrom the precinct would be, and a part of me has been counting down the hours, expecting to hear the knock on my door any minute before the workday ended. But as the afternoon dragged on and the sun started to sink lower in the sky, I realized it was already nearing six o’clock, and I still hadn’t heard from him.
Just one knock, and it was Mari instead of the man I was hoping it would be.
Maybe they decided against asking the residents for statements after all. Maybe, in the light of day, they realized it was a waste of time, that the case was open and shut. Like Mari said, the man who died took his own life. Isn’t much more to investigate.
The thought feels logical, but it also leaves me with an odd sense of disappointment. I have a million questions about the events of last night, and not just for my own peace of mind.
For a writer, this is a rare opportunity. A chance to talk to a real detective, to ask him the kinds of questions that could add a layer of authenticity to my book. How often do I have a muse at my door, straight out of my work in progress?
And yet, the day is slipping away, and it seems like that opportunity might not come.
Still, part of me doesn’t want to let it go. What if I text him? Just to check in, to see if they still need my statement. I could frame it as a polite inquiry, but it would also be a subtle way to get him to respond, to reestablish that contact. And if nothing else, maybe it would open the door for me to ask some of the research questions that have been building in my mind since last night.
My fingers hover over my phone screen for a moment, debating if this is a good idea. Finally, I look at the business card phone number and type out a quick message.
Hi. It’s Petra Rose. Do you guys still need a statement from me?
