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John Raide · (11-23-2013)

I've got a little red bow
And I bought it for you
'Cause I know you're not fair
I don't get it, oh well
And you color my skin
And the colors don't blend
'Cause I'm gonna get you
And your little dog too

John opened his eyes, and blinked into the darkness. The alarm clock was ringing ... no, it was the phone. He sat up on the couch in the living room and reached for his phone on the coffee table.

"Yeah, hello?"

"John? It's Marston."

John sat up, rested his elbows on his knees and tried to shake loose the cobwebs of sleep in his head. He searched for a clock nearby. How long had he been asleep?

"Were you sleeping? It's the middle of the afternoon."

"Just laid down for a nap is all. Lost track of time. What's going on?"

He could hear Marston's labored breathing over the line. If the big man didn't watch it he was on a one way ticket to heart attack central. But, John supposed, maybe that didn't matter. When he was fourteen his father had been in perfect health when he dropped dead in their driveway on his way to work at the Coca-Cola bottling factory. On his way to catch the bus for school, John had found him, slumped against the driver's side door of his truck.

"Good news," Marston said. "We were able to pull a number off the cell phone you found. Veronica Brecht."

"Who is that?"

"Don't know yet. It was the only number Caitlin had dialed before she disappeared. We had to pull the phone records."

"Do we know anything about her yet?"

"Very little. Twenty-four. University of Washington dropout. Waits tables over at the Twisty Toast. Lives in a studio apartment over in Patriots Park."

"Gotcha. Well, alright then. You have any issue with me driving over there and seeing what she knows?"

"Same rules as always."

"We never had this conversation."

"Bingo."

"By the way, did you find anything out about that other number on the phone?"

"Nadda. The phone company is ninety-nine percent sure it doesn't exist."

"Great. Guess we'll hold out for that other one percent then.

There's a yellow brick road
That we follow back home
'Cause I know you can't wait
Your belligerent hate
There's no place like home
There's no place like home
Like home

The window was open and he could smell the salt in the air from the harbor. Abigail had her back to him on the bed.

"Hey. I'm heading out for a bit."

"Okay."

He hung in the doorway for a minute and eyed the stuffed bear that sat in the rocking chair in the corner.

"I might not be back 'til later."

"Okay," she said again.

John stepped into the room and went over and shut the window.

"It's November, shouldn't be keeping the window open all the time. House is freezing."

"I sleep better in the cold. You know that."

"I know you do a lot of sleeping lately."

She didn't answer.

"Well, like I said, I might not be back 'til later. If you're awake, I'll bring you something to eat."

"That's fine."

He was back at the doorway again, and was about to leave when something that needed verbalizing fought its way out.

"Abbs, look. Whatever you’re mad about. I’m sorry. But I can’t fix it if you don’t talk to me."

He waited.

She didn't answer.

There's a little white porch
And you wanted it so
Can you let me go down
To the end of the road
In the black and the white
A Technicolorful life
Can I stand by your side?
We can make it alright
Like home

The sun was burning bright on the horizon as John entered Patriots Park. The apartment complex was south of downtown, tucked away into the trees that sat off the main strip.

John had decided not to call ahead. That’d give her too much time to make up a story. Her building was near the back. Building fourteen to be exact. The parking lot in front was mostly empty and he snagged a vacant visitors spot.

He approached the main door, hands tucked deep into his jacket pockets, head down against the wind that was getting colder every day now.

On his way in, someone on their way out held the door for him. Didn’t even need Veronica to buzz him in after all. He double checked her apartment number and took the stairs up to the second floor.

He only had to knock once.

A girl, who looked a lot younger than her twenty-four years answered. Her hair was honey blonde, with a streak of blue in it. She didn’t open the door all the way, kept part of it in front of her like a shield.

"Help you?"

“Veronica Brecht?”

She flinched for a moment, and almost looked like she wanted to close the door.

“Whose asking?”

“My name is John Raide. I'd like to ask you a few questions if I could.”

“What about?”

“Caitlin Donaher.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Oh, you don’t? Well, someone must have been using your phone as you’re the last number to call her before she went missing.”

“I don’t know what --”

“Caitlin's dead. I want to find out why.”

“How -- how long was she missing for?”

“Two years.”

Veronica put a hand to her mouth. Thought on something.

“Hey, if you know something, talk to me here.”

“I can’t.”

“Are you in some kind of trouble?”

She brushed the hair out of her face. “The stars are down.”

“Excuse me?”

“The stars are down... do you know what that means?”

“No. No I don’t.”

“Then you can’t help me."

The door started to close, but John stuck a foot out to block it. “Just hang on. Let’s back this up. Tell me what’s going on.”

“No, Mr. Raide,” she said. “I’d be helping you by telling you to leave.”

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