Page 15 of The Inmate
I very much doubt this detective is anything like Dawn, but I’m not going to say that. He won’t understand what she’s like.
“So I have to ask you,” he says, “where were you between five o’clock yesterday and this morning?”
My eyebrows shoot up so fast, my forehead gets whiplash. “Me?”
His smile is apologetic. “I have to ask.”
I try not to be too offended by the question. Except I don’t know what they think I did. Do they think I killed Dawn, made up a phony call where she asked for help, then went back to her house and “pretended” to find all that blood on the floor?
“I was with my boyfriend,” I finally say. “His name is Caleb McCullough.”
“All night?”
I wasn’t with Caleb all night. We were together for part of the night, then he left my house. I open my mouth to tell him that, but a nagging voice in the back of my head stops me. My fingerprints are all over Dawn’s house now. The detective keeps giving me a funny look, like he doesn’t quite believe me.
And there’s one other thing nagging at me.
“That’s right,” I say. “I was with Caleb the whole night.”
There. That should wipe the suspicious look off Santoro’s face.
“And this Caleb,” he says, “does he know Dawn too?”
I lift a shoulder. “A little. He’s been doing some part-time work for a company we work for. So he knows her, but barely.”
“And that phone call this morning… you said it came from the phone on her desk?”
“That’s right.” I get a sick feeling in my stomach thinking of how terrified Dawn sounded on that call. I’m so glad I didn’t ignore it like Seth told me to.
He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “We’ll see what calls were placed to that number. Find out where the call was coming from.”
Wherever Dawn is, I hope they can track her down based on that phone call. If she’s being held captive, she must’ve managed for a few seconds.
Detective Santoro grills me with a few other questions about how I knew where Dawn lived, how I got into the house, and also about the broken glass on the floor of the kitchen. Even though I’m still feeling awful, I at least feel like the investigation is in capable hands. This detective knows what he’s doing—I can tell how serious he is based on the fact that his eyes didn’t stray south of my face while we were talking. He’s going to find Dawn, wherever she is.
I hope she’s okay.
Just as he’s finishing up and about to go into the house, a uniformed police officer comes out of the front door. He makes a beeline straight for the detective.
“Detective,” the police officer says. “We got into the computer in her bedroom.”
Santoro rubs his chin. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. It was password-protected, but she had the password written on a Post-it note under her mouse pad.”
Despite everything, I can’t help but let out a little snort. That issoDawn. So incredibly careful about everything, yet careless about other things. I bet her password was something like “password1.”
But snorting was probably the wrong thing to do. Detective Santoro gives me a look like I’m being inappropriate, and he’s probably right. But like I said, he doesn’t know Dawn the way I do.
“All right,” he says. “Let’s see what’s in there.”
“Do you still need me?” I ask.
“Nah, you’re good.” He waves his hand. “But do you got a business card or something?”
I reach into my purse and pull out one of my business cards (or “cahds,” as he said it). As I pass it to the detective, I notice he takes it only with the tip of his fingers. It strikes me as a little odd, but I try not to get too paranoid.
The detective and the policeman disappear into the house, leaving me alone. Good—I can finally get the hell out of here. I turn around to walk back to my car just as the slightly beat-up green Ford pulls up in front of the house next door.
