Too late, lunatic!
At the front door, he pressed a small, fiery kiss to my lips, leaving me feeling as guilty as it did exhilarated. I should text him, apologize for the abrupt ending.
For now, I’m on a mission.
In the kitchen, I find Wes alone, frying eggs, a cup of coffee inhand. His hair is tousled from sleep in a way that’s more effortless than unkempt. Like Amelia, he keeps a tidy appearance.
“Morning!” He beams, surprisingly chipper on a gloomy Sunday. “Coffee?”
“I’d love some,” I say, sweeping my long hair into a ponytail. “Is Amelia still sleeping?” I know she would never snooze in later than me, especially on a day when her vigilance pushes her to conquer tasks before the workweek begins tomorrow.
“Nope. She went out for more tape and boxes about”—Wes glances at the oven clock—“thirty minutes ago? She should be back soon.”
I take the coffee he hands me, and the warmth spreads through my fingers, grounding me. I take an unpleasant sip, wincing at the bitter kiss of lingering toothpaste.
“Want some breakfast? I’m already cooking for Amelia. I can make you a croque madame.”
I tilt my head, my smile curling at his consideration. “Damn, Chef!”
Knowing Amelia is out, I realize this is my window, my chance to slip quietly into the world before any questions can follow.
“That sounds incredible. But I actually have an errand to run,” I add, lifting my coat from the foyer rack. A strange guilt rises with the thought of leaving Wes behind, alone in the domestic hum of my family’s house. “I won’t be long.”
I walk into the local police station, suddenly worried the officers from yesterday will have the day off. After all, it’s Sunday. I even expected it to be closed or deserted. But to my surprise, the lobby is open, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, white walls gleaming in their sterile monotony.
Behind the tall counter, a dowdy woman in her fifties taps a pen against paper, phone clamped between shoulder and ear.
“I said I’ll have him call you back tomorrow,” she says sharply, gum smacking in her mouth. “Uh-huh. Take care.” She hangs up and gives me a half glance, cold and indifferent. “Just a moment,” she mutters, scribbling a few last words.
I rest my fingers on the counter, peering around at photos of uniformed officers on the walls. When I look back at the woman, her eyebrows are lifted, silently demanding I speak.
“Oh, hi. I’m here to speak with Officer Wright? Or Officer Smith? It’s about a break-in at my house yesterday. They came by to take a report.”
“Are they expecting you?” she asks, chewing noisily. Her tone makes it obvious that my sincere request is disrupting her.
“No, but I have some more information I’d like to share with one of them. In person, if possible.”
She lifts the phone again, presses a few buttons, and in the brief pause before the line can connect, Officer Wright emerges from the hallway behind her.
“I was just calling your office,” she says, a trace of amusement breaking her stern demeanor. “This young lady’s here to see you. Are you heading out?” I watch her beam at him and guess it’s due to Officer Wright’s studly, muscley thing he has going for him.
“Morning,” I say. “Remember me? Imogen, from yesterday. I have additional information about the trespassing incident at my mother’s house.”
He hesitates, like he’s recalculating a preplanned task. “Hi, Imogen. Sure. I have a few minutes.” He nods, gesturing for me to follow him down the hall.
The workspace is large and curved, rows of gray desks scattered with just enough distance to grant privacy. He motions toward agray upholstered chair across from his desk, and I sit, noticing the rubber band spinning idly in his hands—his quiet focus shifting entirely to me.
“What have you got?” he asks, snapping a red rubber band.
I don’t actually have more information about yesterday’s break-in—not really. But I figured he might be the best person to talk to about Mom’s case, if you can even call it that. Still, I play along, starting with what he expects.
“Did you find Frank Martin?” I ask.
“I thought you said you had something else that could help,” Officer Wright replies flatly. He’s not unkind, but he doesn’t bother sugarcoating my interruption to his day.
“Well, I was thinking—if Frank’s involved, maybe you could track his location using his Facebook page? Get his IP address?”
He leans back in his chair, unimpressed. “We’d need a court-issued warrant to do that. And if I’m honest, we don’t have enough proof to believe Frank rummaged through your house yesterday. Unless something else happened?”
