Jake got in his truck, engine idling. Barbie locked up and walked to her car. He waved goodbye as she drove from the parking lot.
Buckling his seatbelt and trying not to look at the clock—twenty to six pm—he shifted into reverse and rolled backwards. Barely thinking, he slammed on the brake and put the truck back in park, punching his seatbelt open and turning off the engine. He trotted back to the office, unlocked the door and slipped inside.
When he dialed Petra’s number a second time, a man’s breathless voice answered the phone.
“Hello?” the man shrilled, and Jake grimaced.
“Hi. Is Petra there?”
“Oh, God,” the man moaned.
“Hello?” Jake asked. The word was all wrong, but in that moment sweat had broken out beneath his arms and a balloon of dread had expanded in his chest, eating up the room his lungs needed.
“There’s blood everywhere,” the man cried and his voice sounded high again, terrified, on the verge of panic.
3
Jake blinked at his desk. Sweat slithered down his sides and lodged in the waistband of his pants.
“Is this a joke?” He repeated the same words he’d spoken to Petra that morning, but he knew it wasn’t a joke.
The man on the other end of the line wheezed for breath. “Oh, Petra. Oh, God, no. I have to… I have to get help. Help us!” he shouted into the phone.
Jake cringed and pulled the phone away, his own panic wriggling behind his eyes. “The police,” Jake said, trying to keep his voice calm. “You need to call the police.”
“Oh, God,” the man repeated.
“Tell me the address. Where are you? What’s the address?” Jake demanded, some shred of common sense finding a foothold in his brain.
“It’s on my feet,” the man groaned. “There’s blood on my feet.”
“Hey!” Jake snapped. “Listen to me. What is the address?”
“It’s… 933 Laramie…” The man’s breath sounded choppy. “I… what do I do?”
“In Saginaw? What city?”
“It’s…” Only breath for several seconds, breath with a high squeak like the man was squeezing the oxygen between his teeth. “Bay City. 933 Laramie in Bay City. Side B. It’s a duplex.”
“Okay. I’m calling the police,” Jake told him. “They might need to call back. Stay by the phone.”
Fingers shaking, Jake hung up and dialed 911.
“What’s your emergency?” a woman asked.
“Hi, umm… my name’s Jake. I just tried calling a woman in Bay City and a man answered the phone and said there’s blood everywhere. I’m not there, but he needs help.”
“What’s the address, please?”
Ignoring the speed limit, Jake made the drive from Saginaw to Bay City in fifteen minutes.
The duplex occupied a short rectangular ranch on a suburban street on the southwest edge of Bay City. The connected homes were mirror images except Side B had dark curtains covering the front window and a standard black mailbox. Side A’s curtains were bright yellow and its white mailbox was painted with little blue swirls.
Two police cars, lights flashing, occupied the driveway. An ambulance idled at the curb.
Jake parked on the street. In his rearview, more flashing lights appeared. Two more police cars pulled into the driveway.
The only man not in uniform on the property was tall and thin with dark curly hair. His eyes were wide, his mouth open and his face pallid. He held his hands pressed as if in prayer against his chest. An officer spoke to him, but the man’s lips barely moved. He’d been the man on the phone, Jake was sure of it.
Jake didn’t have to approach the scene. He hadn’t seen anything, but he had called it in and… he wanted to know if the woman he’d met that morning lay dead inside the duplex.
As he walked toward the duplex, two officers strung yellow tape across the recently mowed lawn. The day smelled of cut grass.
One officer glanced up at him, pausing and squaring off as if he expected Jake to rush the tape. Other people trickled from their houses and gathered on the lawns down the street.
“I’m the one who called,” Jake said, gesturing at the house. “The police. I called them.”
The cop lifted an eyebrow. “You’ll need to talk with the detective. I’m here to secure the scene and that’s it.”
Jake approached the tall, anxious looking man he assumed he’d spoken to earlier. The man had wound his hands through his button-down shirt, which he’d tugged loose from his white jeans. The shirt was loud and covered in blue and pink stripes.
“I spoke with you on the phone. I’m the one who called the police.” Jake told him.
He blinked at Jake, and then slowly nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Okay. I wondered if I’d imagined it. If I’d called myself.” He released a nervous laugh.
“I’m Jake,” Jake extended his hand.
The man shook it limply. “I’m Norm,” he mumbled, gazing at the dark window on the right side of the duplex.
“Was she in there?” Jake nodded at the duplex where he could see a jumble of uniformed cops crowding the doorway.
Norm frowned and bit his lip. He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. I walked in and there was…” He closed his eyes and winced. “Blood on the carpet, the walls. At first I thought she was painting, which is insane. But then I smelled it.” He took his hands from his shirt and undid the bottom button before immediately threading it back through the hole. He did it a second time and a third.
Jake found his eyes drawn to the white button slipping in and out of the fabric. “But you didn’t find her? The woman herself?”
Norm’s eyes stayed fixed on the house. He shook his head.
“Have they brought out a stretcher or anything?” Jake asked.
“No,” Norm breathed. He looked away from the house, his gray eyes settling on Jake. They’d momentarily cleared. “How did you know that she needed help?”
Jake shook his head. “I didn’t. I called her and you picked…” He paused, realizing that that had been the second time. The first time he’d called, someone else had picked up.
He’d forgotten all about it.
Jake tried to phrase his next question in a non-accusing way. “How long were you in there, Norm? Like ten minutes or more?”
Norm’s eyes widened. “Oh, God, no. No. Two minutes maybe. I mean I walked in, called out for Petra, saw the blood and the phone rang.” Norm snapped his fingers. “It felt like minutes, but maybe it was seconds.”
“So you only answered the phone once?” Jake asked.
Norm nodded, eyes drifting back to the duplex.
“Could she have just like… cut herself and driven to the hospital?” Jake asked, throwing out one of a series of theories he’d developed on the drive to Bay City.
Norm released his shirt and moved one hand to his mouth, where he pulled at the skin on his chin and cheeks. “There was so much blood,” he murmured.
“Is her car here? Was it in the garage?”