Page 18 of The Vacancy In Room 10

He stands and puts his drink down. “I’ll get this dud out of your way,” he says and goes to the old broken AC unit to pick it up.

“Wait, that means you’ve never had a Choco Taco?”

“Negative.”

“Well, I have to buy you one for all your hard work,” I say, and he doesn’t protest, just sort of smirks as he lifts the AC, and I open the door for him and follow him out.

We sit on a rotting picnic table on the edge of the property watching the ice-cream chaos unfold. A Chipwich and a Dreamsicle have already hit the hot pavement and the sound of crying toddlers rivals the organ music coming from the truck. One of the moms fishes for more change and argues with the driver when she’s a couple dimes short. An older boy in swim trunks is going around snapping people in the legs with his wet towel with one hand and eating the bubblegum eyes of a Pink Panther Popsicle with the other.

“What do ya think?” I ask Callum after he takes a bite.

“Hmm,” he says, catching the dripping ice cream with a tiny napkin.

“Stale?” I ask, and he laughs.

“Little bit,” he says.

“They’re always stale. I forgot that part. Childhood nostalgia must have clouded my memory.” I toss mine in a metal trash bin, and he follows suit.

“It was the thought that counts,” he says, then stands. “I better get back.”

“Hey,” I say before he can go. “Is there, by any chance, a storage unit here somewhere?”

“Kind of. There’s basement access over there.” He nods to concrete stairs near the front office. “Some of the residents rent them to store extra stuff, but if you need storage, I wouldn’t use them if I were you.”

“Oh, why’s that?”

“Well, they’re damp and full of mice, or so I hear. I don’t have one, but that’s the word,” he says, and I don’t tell him I’m looking for Henry’s unit—to see if the key really is to storage or just some strange decoy, because what the hell do I even know anymore about what he was hiding? I should ask Callum more. He might know, but ever since I got those threats, I don’t want to give anything away to anybody until I know what’s going on.

“Gotcha, thanks. And thanks again for your help, really.”

“Sure thing,” he says, and tips his ball cap with a shy smile before he walks away.

I decide to wait until dusk—after the residents are mostly inside their apartments—before going down to the basement. I don’t want anyone asking questions or gossiping about me because from what I overhear from my perch on the balcony, everyone’s dirty laundry is fair game around here—it’s not just the pool ladies spreading it about.

There were seven or eight residents down there on deck chairs yesterday, drinking Colt 45s and talking about why Mary’s grandson is staying with her. At the beginning of the conversation, it was because the mother took off with some guy, but by the middle, it was because she’s doing life without parole in a maximum security prison for killing the father of the boy. By the end, it was settled on that she definitely stabbed him in the shower two dozen times, “Jodi Arias–style,” but that he deserved it. It’s incredible, really. I can’t tell if it’s a bit of fun or if the pool whispers could cause any real damage.

The more private I can keep my business, the better, I can already see that.

In the late afternoon, I drive to the police station to meet with Detective Harrison. I’m irritated that they won’t divulge more over the phone when I talk to them. Did they find something new? Do they know he said he killed someone? They can’t because of course he didn’t. I’m the only one who heard that, I know, but still...my heart pounds as I get closer to the now-familiar building, and a sixth sense washes over me that something is different this time. Something is wrong.

I wait in a small room with a folding table and two plastic chairs that looks like an interrogation room I’ve seen on Snapped or a 20/20 episode. When Harrison finally comes in, I instinctively start to stand, but he gestures me to sit again, and he has a hard look about him—lips pursed into a thin line and a crease in his forehead. He sits opposite of me.

“Thanks for coming in, Ms. Hartley. Can I get you anything?” he asks, fiddling with his tie.

“Did something happen? Did you find anything on his computer—a note or something? Why am I here?” It felt routine when they said they had more questions, but I am starting to feel panicked now that I’m here.

“I just want to go over some of the basic information again with you...if that’s okay?” His face is purposefully neutral, and he leans back in his chair and brushes the small stack of paper in his hand with the edge of his thumb.

“Again? I feel like I’ve told you everything I know a dozen times.”

“I know. You have been very helpful, but I just want to ask again about that final phone call,” he says, and I don’t know if I can bear retelling it. It’s bad enough the hollow echo of his voice uttering his final words haunts me every single day and keeps me up at night. Don’t make me say it out loud again. My heart aches. I feel tears forming behind my eyes already. I fucked up our whole lives, he said, and I’m so sorry, but I just can’t—I can’t do it anymore. How many times do I need to tell them the same thing?

“You don’t have to tell us about the conversation. You have been very consistent with your statement...” he says.

Consistent? Why would he use that word? Of course I have. It’s what happened. I feel pricks of heat form under my shirt. What does he want from me?

“But at the end of the conversation,” he continues, “when you say you heard the loud bang and the call dropped, can you tell me what that bang sounded like? Can you remember?”

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