Silas Sharp and the Case of the Missing Tuesday: Chapter 2

 

Chapter 2: The Man Who Wasn’t There

I know what you’re thinking. What is a metaphysical detective? What does one do? If you weren’t thinking that you are now.

I find things that don’t want to be found. Realities that slipped behind the couch cushions. Truths too inconvenient for physics. I don’t chase suspects. I chase suspicions. I don’t solve crimes. I rearrange consequences. We each make choices in the life we’re given. Those choices impact those around us. Call it the butterfly effect. Call it what you want. I call it the damn truth. An off-handed comment. A simple gesture. A decision made in private. All of it matters. Each one leaves a wake. I’m presented with that wake and figure out why it happened.

Most detectives work with what’s there. I work with what’s missing. The pause before the punchline. The sigh after the lie. The day that should’ve happened but didn’t. And somewhere in that negative space, I find the shape of the thing we’re all pretending isn’t real.

That’s where Randy Ellison lived. At least emotionally, subconsciously. Metaphysically.

Physically, Unit 2B at Vineyard Apartments. A building so tired even the ghosts rent month-to-month. Also, no vineyard to be seen for at least one hundred square miles. The buzzer at the main entrance was busted, the mailbox hung open like it was struggling to finish a thought. Someone had written SORRY ABOUT THE STAIRS followed by a smiley face in Sharpie on the handrail.

I tried the door. Locked, naturally.

But I don’t play by the rules. I keep a universal key in my coat pocket in the form of a sturdy credit card from a defunct dimension. A few wiggles, a whisper, and I was in.

Randy’s apartment was aggressively neutral and carefully curated. Beige furniture. Beige walls. Beige air. Like someone tried to forget on purpose. A digital calendar hung on the fridge. Dates cleanly typed in.  Reminders set for Monday and Wednesday:

MONDAY: Email Shelly re: account discrepancy
WEDNESDAY: Call Mom. Be patient this time.

No Tuesday. Not even a blank square. I checked his bookshelf. Titles included:

• The Psychology of Routine
• Wired for Safety: How Habits Build Happy Brains
• The Art of Not Thinking Too Much (Unless You Absolutely Have To)

Nothing bookmarked. Nothing dog-eared. These books were bought to say something, not to read. Then I noticed the shoes. Three pairs, all lined up with military precision near the door. Monday’s loafers, Wednesday’s sneakers, Thursday’s work boots. Tuesday’s slot was empty. Like the day never needed feet. I knelt to look closer and found a small, sealed, unlabeled envelope tucked into one of the shoes. Written in pencil on the flap: “In case I remember.”

I slid it into my coat.

The fridge held nothing but lemon water, a slice of chocolate cake sealed in plastic, and a small vial of lavender oil labeled “Tuesday.” On the front of the fridge, pinned beneath a cat-shaped magnet, was a sticky note with one word written in shaky pen: DAISY. Underlined twice. Ink bled slightly at the edges like it wanted to disappear but got caught trying.

More of the same found in the apartment’s only bedroom. Unplugged clock, silent walls, a book of crossword puzzles all started but not finished. But under the bed, behind a taped-up cardboard box labeled Tuesday, I find a smaller box. This one is open. Inside I found a dog leash attached to a red and gray harness on top of some small stuffed animals. The stuffies looked like they had been torn apart and resewn more than once. Under them rested a plain manila envelope. A quick glance inside revealed a collection of photographs. I didn’t look at the photos. Not yet.

I sat on the edge of the bed, eyes closed and listened to the space itself. All was quiet, but not empty. Like the room was holding its breath, worried it might reveal too much.

A noise outside. The jangle of keys. The fall of footsteps rushing throughout the apartment.

“Randy?” a woman’s voice called out. “Randy, are you here?”

I didn’t move. Let this person find me. I wanted to talk about the man without a Tuesday. A leggy brunette who looks like her dark green skirt was sewn onto her stood in the doorway of the bedroom. She studied me with narrow eyes, a revolver in her right hand pointed at me.