Metaphysical Furniture

  Chapter 8 – The Boy on the Bicycle Children rarely begin a story where adults expect. Ask a grown-up about the worst day of their life and they'll usually start with the event. Ask a child the same question and they'll begin with breakfast. The important parts are different. I found Tommy Martinez sitting on the curb outside the neighborhood park tightening the chain on a bicycle that looked as though it had survived three owners and at least one regrettable encounter with a pickup truck. Tommy couldn't have been older than ten. The story give to me in my research sounded like the tagline for an artsy horror flick that people debate about online: "Kid says he rides bikes with someone who's been dead for thirty years." Tommy looked up as I approached. "You the detective?" "That’s what my business cards say.” "Lily said you'd probably come,” he said, returning to his bike chain. "I hope that's a good thing....

  Chapter 7 – Emotional Residue Every detective has a moment when the facts stop fitting inside the case they thought they were investigating. A clue doesn’t jive with what you know. A story comes out of left field and upends the context of the investigation. Or no matter how much you stare at the information it never comes together. For me, it usually happened sometime between the second cup of coffee and accepting that the impossible had a better grip on reality than I did. By Friday afternoon, I'd stopped asking whether strange things were happening on Laurel Lane. They were. The better question was why they all seemed to happen at exactly the same time of day. I spent the afternoon walking the neighborhood without interviewing anyone or taking notes. Observation was the only agenda item. During daylight, Laurel Lane remained aggressively ordinary. Landscapers trimmed hedges with military precision. A delivery driver wrestled a king-sized mattress up the front walk of ...