The cops ignored me while they waited for Rountree to come back outside. They stood close together, about ten feet away from me, and held a low conversation I mostly couldn’t hear. Only scattered words reached me.
Can’t believe it . . . does she think we missed something . . . overtime . . .
Their radios crackled. The cop on the right listened and then said something back. When she clicked off, she turned to her partner and spoke in a voice I could hear.
“They’re trying to find that guy,” she said. “The one he says was here.”
“Kyle Dornan,” I said.
They both turned to look at me but didn’t respond. They went back to their conversation, speaking even lower so I couldn’t make out anything.
So I waited. I leaned back against the house, letting the sun wash over my face. It was turning into a really nice spring day. I wished I was able to enjoy it. Go to the park with Amanda and Henry. Sit outside and drink a beer in the evening. Open the windows and air out the house.
Rountree came back out. She nodded at the two officers, and one of them told her about Kyle Dornan.
“They haven’t found him yet,” she said.
“I heard,” Rountree said. “They’ll keep looking.” Then she turned to me and asked, “How did you say you knew Mr. Norton again?”
“We met in college. At Ferncroft.”
“Freshman year?”
“That’s right.”
“Would you say he’s a sentimental man?” Rountree asked.
It was such an odd question, delivered in such a casual tone. It took me a moment to understand she was serious.
“Blake? He fancies himself a romantic. I guess sentimental can go along with that.”
“Is he sentimental about your college days?”
“No. No more than anyone else.” We avoided a lot of talk about college because of the way it ended. The hazing. The accident. Like it was a healing scab, I tried not to put any pressure on it, although from time to time I bumped up against it accidentally, bringing on a new rush of pain. “Why do you ask?”
“What was Sigil and Shield?” she asked.
The sun suddenly felt warmer. The two uniformed cops had turned to watch Rountree’s questioning of me like curious bystanders. A bead of sweat trickled down my back under my shirt.
Where was she coming up with all of this?
“Why are you asking about Sigil and Shield?”
“Can you just explain it to me?” she said, her voice weary. “You see, I had to go to a public university. Where I grew up in Nebraska. I paid my way through by working in a fast-food restaurant. Worked my way up to assistant manager in two years. We had sororities and fraternities, but nothing called ‘Sigil and Shield.’ Can you enlighten me on what that is? It sounds like a Dungeons and Dragons–type game, but I’m guessing it was more than that.”
The two officers looked even more curious, watching from behind Rountree.
“It’s a social club. At Ferncroft. We didn’t have fraternities and sororities, but we had social clubs. A group you had to be invited to join. We did charity in the community. Social things.”
“And you partied too?”
I swallowed. My back grew wetter from the sweat. My throat drier. “Of course. We were in college.”
“And you and Mr. Norton were in this group together?” Rountree asked.
“That’s right. With a lot of other people. We weren’t officers or anything.”
“But he wasn’t sentimental about it? Not the kind of guy to go traipsing down memory lane? Not the type to reminisce about the good old days in Sigil and Shield?”
“We talk about the past. Sometimes. Why are you asking me this? I’m sorry I don’t see what it has to do with—”
“You’ve been in this house before today, right?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“So you’ve been all through it? Upstairs and down?”
“I have.”
“You know Mr. Norton has an office upstairs? He has a desk, a computer, reference books for his job, all that kind of stuff. I’ll give him credit. He keeps it pretty neat and tidy. Nothing out of place. Everything orderly. Is that him or his fiancée who insists on that kind of order?”
“Blake always kept his desk pretty clean. We roomed together for three years in college. He could go weeks without doing laundry or getting a haircut, but he kept his desk clean.”
“Interesting.”
“Are you going to let me in on the secret?” I asked.
Rountree looked back at the other officers, who stared at her like kindergartners waiting to see if their teacher was going to let them out for recess. She turned back to me and nodded.
“I went all through the house. They were right. There was nothing ransacked, nothing damaged outside of that bourbon bottle. Rowan’s Creek. Good stuff too. A shame to waste it. But I did notice in the office that Mr. Norton had his college yearbooks out. What is it called? The Bower?”
“That’s it.”
“The Bower. Anyway, all four years of college yearbooks out on the desk. Nothing else out, nothing out of place. But there were those yearbooks. And one of them was opened to the page about the Sigil and Shield. From what must have been your senior year. It was the most recent yearbook. That’s why I ask if he was sentimental. Why would he have those out and be looking through them now? It seems odd, given the complications with Jennifer Bates and his impending wedding. You’d think his mind would be on other things, right?”
“I don’t know, Detective.”
And I really didn’t. There was nothing in the yearbook about the accident. Nothing about the Sigil and Shield being suspended for a year. They kept things like that out of a yearbook. No one wanted to look back on bad memories.
What Blake wanted from The Bower’s pages, I couldn’t guess.
Rountree turned to the two officers. “Will one of you close that window and make sure everything is locked? Then sit on the place in case anyone comes back.”
The two officers jumped to it. Rountree folded her arms again and studied my face. She even tilted her head a little, trying to get a better angle.
“I need a favor from you, Mr. Francis. I need you to answer a question. Something I learned a little earlier today just came back to me, and it’s really sticking in my craw.”
“What’s that?”
“We had a witness come forward a little while ago. A gentleman who lives in Ms. Bates’s neighborhood. It turns out he was walking his dog last night, not long before the body was discovered.”
I stayed still, tried to keep my face neutral. I felt like an insect pinned to somebody’s display board. Exposed. Helpless.
Desperately in trouble.
“He saw a man creeping around the area, and he gave us a description of the man. You weren’t around there last night, were you?”
“I told you where I was.”
“Not exactly an answer,” Rountree said. She turned and started to walk off, but she abruptly stopped and came back to me. “You know what we can do, Mr. Francis? We can go down to the station. You can stand in a lineup and this gentleman can come in and, well, then he can tell us if it was you who he saw near the crime scene. How does that sound?”
“Not pleasant.”
“It isn’t.” She toed the ground, her arms still crossed. “When those officers come out of the house again, I could get them to cuff you and bring you down to the station, whether you like it or not.”
“I guess you could,” I said. “And I could call a lawyer who probably wouldn’t want me to stand in any lineups. I’ve already been cooperating with you.”
“By trespassing in your friend’s house.”
“I need to go, Detective. I need to check on my family.”
Rountree reached into her pocket and brought out an iPhone. She held it in the space between us.
For a second I thought it was Jennifer’s. Recovered from where Blake had ditched it.
But it wasn’t the right color. This was Rountree’s phone.
“I could take your photo,” she said. “Snap it right here and show it to our witness. I know you like Instagram. Which filter would you like? Crema? Juno? Hashtag no filter?”
I held her gaze. Steady. Unwavering. No blinks.
She lowered the phone.
“But we don’t really need that. I can easily find a photo of you online to show our witness. I’m talking to him again today. I trust you’re not leaving the area anytime soon, are you?”
“I’m not.”
The two uniformed officers came out of Blake’s house, and once they walked past, Rountree followed them.
“Good day, Mr. Francis. Do your best to make it a good day.”