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Blair: I’ll be over at 5.
Then I turned my phone off. At 4:45, I unlocked Caleb’s apartment with my key. The first thing I noticed was the smell or lack of one. It smelled like furniture. Clean, stale, and unused.
I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Water, beer, condiments, and two takeout containers. I saw a carton of eggs that expired a month ago.
I laughed. “Wow.”
I opened cabinets and barely saw anything. The man who supposedly lived there didn’t have enough groceries to survive a snowstorm.
I moved toward the bedroom and the bed was made. I pulled open a drawer. I saw clothes and even some in the closet. But as I looked closer, everything suddenly appeared decorative. Enough to convince someone who stopped by that it was where Caleb Whitmore lived. Except I knew the gray joggers he wore constantly. Not there. His favorite sneakers. Not there. Even his everyday watch box was not there.
I stood in the center of the bedroom. “You lying motherfucker.”
The front door opened. “Blair?”
I walked out and Caleb stepped inside. He took one look at my face and stopped.
“Hey.”
“I don’t want to hear that hey shit.”
He shut the door carefully. “Okay.”
I laughed. “Okay.”
“I know you’re pissed.”
“You know I’m pissed?”
“Yes.”
“Do you live here?”
His face changed. “What?”
“Do. You. Live. Here.”
“Blair—”
“Wrong answer.”
“I stay here.”
“How often?”
He rubbed his jaw. “I don’t keep count.”
“I did.”
His eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”
“I came by four nights in a row. You weren’t here once.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“At your wife’s house?”
“Blair.”
