The Eighth Day

Chapter 8

The detective set the radio to a classic R&B station, and Bruno Mars drifted out of the speakers. Shawn Jaffe tuned it out and tried to sort through the madness.

His thoughts kept returning to the accident—the whine of the engine, the heat and the stench of oil, the grille behind which he'd find not a radiator but eternal perdition. Time had taken on the consistency of molasses, and he'd seen everything with perfect clarity—the rocks wedged into the tire treads, each dent in the chrome and chip in the paint, every blemish of rust and splatter of insect gore. Then he'd closed his eyes, thrown himself sideways, and braced for the impact and that final bright eclipse of pain, followed by nothing at all. The van had been right on top of him. He could've reached out and touched it.

The remains of a butterfly stared back at him.

Maybe it swerved at the last second to keep Harrington in its sights.

Fluttering in the wind.

It was possible.

"Where'd you want me to drop you off?" Harrington asked.

Shawn rubbed his eyes and reoriented himself to the present. "Here's fine."

Harrington pulled to the side of the road. "I'm gonna put a car on your apartment tonight," he said. "They'll be outside if you need them."

"You think I'm in danger?"

"Probably not, but I'd rather play it safe," Harrington said. He sighed and shook his head. "I don't get it. The guy from the restaurant this morning said you were being watched."

"And that nothing I know is real," Shawn said.

"But why? What do you do in your free time, when you're not working? Maybe it has something to do with that."

"Not much. I mean, I go out to eat. Some sightseeing. Maybe grab a drink. You know, nothing unusual. Nothing illegal."

"What about before you moved here?"

"I was in college. Just graduated from Ohio State."

"Any chance it's related to something that happened there?"

Shawn frowned. "I doubt it. I mean, I haven't done anything worth watching."

Harrington tugged at the bandage on his left hand. "I still wanna go over your schedule for the past month or so. See if we can come up with any leads. Can you swing by the precinct tomorrow morning?"

"Sounds good. I'll see you then."

"Take care."

Shawn got out of the car, and Harrington sped away and disappeared into the backdrop of the city.

Towering over him, the countless windows of the Post Toscana reflected the fiery orange of the setting sun. Its cavernous lobby was empty. Shawn hurried toward the elevators, and the staccato echo of his footsteps followed him. Or was it more than an echo? He glanced over his shoulder. There was no one there, no one following him, but the hair on the back of his neck prickled. He wasn't alone. He could feel them watching him.

He told himself it was his imagination.

The maglev elevator floated up to the seventeenth floor of the high-rise, and when the doors opened, he hustled toward his apartment. The security system's facial recognition software unlocked the door as he approached, and he threw himself inside and bolted the door behind him.

He exhaled forcibly and tossed his briefcase on the table, his keys on his briefcase, and poured himself a scotch, straight. To cold comfort and better days. He toasted the empty apartment and downed the contents of the glass. Feeling better and more relaxed, he poured another and opened the freezer. It was packed full of uneven stacks of frozen dinners. He shuffled through them, grabbed one at random, and tossed it onto the laser oven's rack.