Page 417 of A Matter of Time

What was blowing his mind was normal for me. “If everybody in the world always did exactly what they should, think how boring life would be.”

“Yeah, sure, but I could be an axe murderer for all she knows.”

“You look like you belong on the Disney Channel,” I told him. “You are all kinds of clean-cut, all-American goodness.”

He stopped me with a hand on my shoulder before I could start down the hall on the third floor.

“What?”

“Are you by any chance into clean-cut, all-American goodness?”

“I have a guy,” I said quickly, moving away from him to check the numbers on the doors.

“He wouldn’t have to know, Jory.”

“He’s a police detective,” I said distractedly, getting closer, watching the numbers ascend.

“So what?”

“He knows everything,” I said, finding the door, stopping in front of it, and taking a deep breath because here I was on the brink of my discovery.

“And if he did find out? What’s he gonna do, kill you?”

“Yeah,” I said, sliding the key into the lock, feeling how easily it moved, the glide of it. “And then you.”

“Knock it off, Jory. He’s not gonna hurt me.”

But I couldn’t even concentrate enough to debate him. I was much too interested in seeing what was in Susan Reid’s apartment.

I figured I would find something small. It was going to be an uphill battle for me to clear Caleb. What I got was more than I could have ever hoped for or imagined. Because in the master bedroom, where there should have been a bed or a chest of drawers or a nightstand or a chair, there were only walls covered with pictures and clippings of Dane Harcourt. There were long strips of paper, maybe two feet by five, thumbtacked to the walls, and on them were photographs of a ribbon, a card, some ticket stubs, and various other items—a cocktail napkin, a matchbook—all put together in a mosaic that was horrifying and stunning at the same time. It must have taken weeks, months, just to take all the pictures, and the patience to see a task like that completed was hard to imagine. That it had been painstakingly done was an understatement, and Tyler’s low whistle of awe said everything I couldn’t at that moment.

We walked closer to get a better look, neither of us touching the prints, just our eyes moving over the surface.

“Somebody’s got a little obsession going, huh?”

Absolutely. “There’s something weird about it, though.”

“Weirder than it being here at all?” He chuckled.

“Yeah,” I said, leaning closer, wanting to allay my curiosity. “Weirder than that.”

His hand closed on my shoulder. “Don’t touch it, Jory.”

I couldn’t figure out what was wrong, but maybe Sam could. I turned on my phone and dialed him.

He didn’t greet me, he just made a demand. “Tell me where you are. Please.”

“I can’t do that. I don’t want a psych eval or a straitjacket.”

“Oh, for crissakes, Jory, you know I would never⁠—”

“I know you wouldn’t, but Calhoun would, and maybe he’s got you bugged.”

“You do sound a bit nuts when you say shit like that.”

“Listen, everybody else can be surprised that I’m not dead or roll their eyes and be like, ‘dumbass Jory,’ but you…you’re the one who’s supposed to know I’m smart and good, not just be someone else waiting to hear the latest stupid thing Jory did.”

He didn’t say anything.