Free One We Love, The by Donna White Glaser Page B

enough to
understand how things might impact his job, but I’d never seen any evidence
that he used any of the myriad of technologies available in his daily life.
    Besides, I would have heard the damn alert.
    I gave up, trudged into the kitchen where my phone was
charging, and stared blurrily at the home screen. Even in my groggy state I
could see that there were no little icons for missed texts or messages. I
clicked over to the MISSED CALLS screen and there it was.
    DET BLODGETT
    He’d called at 10:04 this morning. I clicked over to the
messages screen and found—nothing. Which didn’t make sense. Blodgett’s text had
obviously come through. I checked the volume in case I’d forgotten to adjust it
after my last therapy session. Except I hadn’t had therapy with anyone today,
and I knew the phone worked because I’d gotten several calls on it.
    Maybe Blodgett had called but hadn’t properly sent the
message? Was that even possible? 
    And yet . . .
    Where had my phone been when Blodgett had called?
    Or better question: where had I been? If it rang
while I was with Clotilde, I wouldn’t have heard it. I would, however, have since
heard the beep indicating I had voice mail or missed a call. I hadn’t heard
that.
    My usual habit was to leave my cell on the desk next to me
while I worked. If it’s out on my desk I was more likely to remember to turn it
to vibrate before meetings. There is nothing as embarrassing as a cell phone ringing
in the middle of a therapy session. But if I had followed my usual habit—and I
thought I had—it would have been sitting on the desk . . . including the time I
met with Clotilde. On the desk in the therapy office where Lachlyn waited for
me all by her lonesome, growing more and more irritated.
    Where, in fact, Lachlyn could have seen that my buddy, Det.
Blodgett, was returning my phone calls. She must have wondered why I had a
police detective in my phone directory. Had she deleted the message?
    So much for sleep.
     
    F riday was a
struggle. I managed, barely, to stay focused on the back-to-back clients I had
scheduled that morning. On the positive side, being so busy kept my mind from
anxiously swirling out of control. Not only had the doubts raised last night
kept me awake, but Siggy had picked up on my tension and refused to sleep with
me. I’d have to learn better stress management techniques or I’d lose my
snuggle buddy.
         Eventually the time for my appointment with Emma rolled
around. On the way over to Regina’s house, I stopped at Blodgett’s house and
left copies of the files. Neither he nor Diana were home, but he left the
screened-in porch unlocked and he’d told me to leave them on top of the freezer
chest.
    I’d never been to Regina’s and didn’t know what to expect. I
had always pictured her living in a sleek, ultra-modern condo with stainless
steel fixtures and having somebody else to do the maintenance.
    Instead, I discovered that she lived in a restored Craftsman
style bungalow in a quiet, well-tended neighborhood. Emma waited on the covered
porch, a soft, pumpkin-colored sweater draped over one arm in concession to the
early autumn air.
    As I climbed the steps, she smiled. “Thank you for coming over.
I don’t know how I would have felt doing this by myself.”
    I wasn’t altogether sure what she meant by “this” but
assumed it had to do with entering Regina’s home by herself. I answered with a
simple “no problem,” and we fell silent.
    Emma unlocked the front door and entered first. The house
was filled with a silence so foreboding, it had texture. Yet somewhere close
by, a clock ticked. The furnace hummed to life. We stood in the entryway as
though expecting someone— Regina? —to  call out a welcome. The door
clicked shut behind us.
    “Are you looking for anything in particular?” Emma asked.
     “Her scheduling calendar. An appointment book or something
on her computer. I couldn’t find anything at the clinic or the shelter,