Free Back Story by Renee Pawlish Page A

over, her eyebrows in a narrow, disapproving line. Apparently she was not a fan of Bogie.
    “Sorry,” I mouthed at her as I pulled my phone from my pocket. I didn’t recognize the number, but answered it anyway.
    “Reed?” The tone was low and tight.
     “Yes?” I said. The voice was as unfamiliar as the number.
    The woman in the next cube glared at me and cleared her throat. I was making far too much noise for her. I shifted so my back was toward her and shielded the phone with my free hand.
    “It’s Brad.”
    “Oh, hey,” I said quietly.
    “You need to come over right away.” The edginess in his tone zipped through the phone.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “I think someone broke into my house again.”
    “You think ? You’re not sure?”
    He sighed heavily. “It’s not like last time, where everything was thrown about. I came home after work to pick up some clothes and I noticed a few things out of place. A newspaper not quite where I left it. Papers on my desk moved slightly. The files in the boxes seem shifted, like they’ve been gone through. It’s as if someone was searching around, but very carefully this time. I could be wrong, but I don’t think so. They’re looking for the files you have.”
    “Have you seen anyone outside, like before?”
    “No. I walked up and down the street before I called you. I didn’t see the car that’s been here, and I didn’t see anyone waiting in one either.”
    “They’ve probably gone, just in case you called the police.”
    “Should I?”
    “If nothing was taken, there’s not much the police will do, other than file a report.”
    “I’d just look silly,” he said. “But I want you to come over so you can see what I mean about someone being here.”
    “Okay, give me your address.” He rattled it off and I wrote it down. “I’m on my way,” I said and ended the call.
    I gathered up my belongings, and as I walked by the woman in the next cube, I noticed her lips curl up into a small smile, glad that I was leaving. That hurt.
    ***
    Brad lived in a red-brick house in a quaint Washington Park neighborhood, about fifteen minutes in rush hour traffic from the library. The house was built around the turn of the 20 th century, and it sat in a row of other similar houses. It had a front yard the size of a postage stamp and a small porch that spanned the length of the house. The house itself wasn’t very big, maybe 1500 square feet, but since it was in Wash Park, a well-to-do area around a 160-acre park with two lakes, a boathouse, and tennis courts, I’m sure the value of the house was outrageous. 
    One of the downsides of the neighborhood was that parking places were scarce. I drove around, watching for a parking place and for any suspicious cars or someone who looked as if he were casing Brad’s house. I didn’t see the latter, but I did finally find a place a block from Brad’s house. I squeezed the 4-Runner into the space. Just in case Brad was correct, and someone was watching his house, I grabbed my backpack with Dewey’s case files and journal, got out, and locked the car. The afternoon heat still lingered as I hurried to his house. As I trotted up the sidewalk, the front door flew open.
    “Man, am I glad to see you,” Brad said. His blond hair was tousled, as if he’d run his hands through it. “This whole thing has me rattled.”
    “That’s understandable,” I said as I followed him inside.
    I stepped into a miniscule foyer. Directly in front of me were stairs, and to the left was what I presumed to be a bedroom. To the right, through an arched doorway, was a long room with an open floor plan. It was decorated in a modern style, with hardwood floors throughout, off-white walls, and dark wood trim. A tan leather couch sat under the front window and a fireplace was on the wall opposite the doorway. A reclining chair was placed to the left of the fireplace, with a reading lamp nearby. Past that was a dining area with a long rectangular table,