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After Ridley had left, I sat back at my computer to try write some more of my novel.
Writer’s block had fully set in. To be fair, it was already at 99% before Ridley came inside. But now it was at a full 100%. I could not think of another word to save my life.
I closed my laptop and continued to sit in deep thought.
How the hell would I even help him out?
I couldn’t imagine.
I began to think of the disappearing animal hair.
Ridley said that it existed until the technician put it under a microscope.
Maybe whatever it was is sensitive to the microscope itself.
Out of nowhere, my brain began to think of a novel I wrote ten years ago.
I ran to my bookcase that contained all the books I wrote along with all the short stories and novellas included in various anthologies and collections.
I searched for the one I was thinking of.
I couldn’t remember the name of it, but I knew once I saw it that it would be the one.
There it was!
The Chameleon.
I quickly pulled it out of its place, accidentally dropping three books onto the hardwood. I didn’t pick them up.
I walked over the sofa, sat down, and opened up the book.
I moved pages until I got to around the middle.
I found and read the chapter I was looking for.
After closing the book, I grabbed Ridley’s card, picked up my parents’ phone (no matter how long I live here, everything in this house will always feel like it’s my parents’), and dialed Ridley’s number.
“Sheriff Ridley,” the voice on the line spoke.
“Sheriff, it’s Philip,” I said.
“Ah, Mr. Solomon. Or can I call you by your first name now?”
“Yes, you can. And I have a theory.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t think the animal hair went missing.”
“What do you mean, Philip?” It was weird to hear him call me by first name, but I liked it better than my stupid “God-given” last name. “I told you, the hairs disappeared before the technician’s very eyes. They’re gone.”
“I don’t think so. I think we need to go to Jefferson City and use their lab.”
Silence was Ridley’s immediate response, followed by what sounded like him spitting.
“All right,” he finally said. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, say around nine a.m.?”
That was early for me. But then again, any time these days was too early for someone who felt like their life was meaningless.
“Nine works. See ya tomorrow, Sheriff.”