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either, by the way . . .”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œYou’re welcome. But I think people should know. I wish you could just take it easy, you know?”
    â€œYes,” I said. “I do know. I’ll see what I can do.”
    â€œYou want me to wait out here?” David asked.
    He’d do it too, I realized. He wasn’t just saying it. If I wanted to go alone, he’d let me. He’d wait out here, in a cold car, until I came back. I didn’t deserve that kind of sacrifice.
    â€œActually,” I said, “I wouldn’t mind a friend right now.”
    Something in his eyes tweaked, like he was suspicious. Then he nodded once and said, “You bet,” and we got out of the car.
    I hadn’t wanted a friend in years. Not apart from people on message boards and whatnot. Figures the first time I actuallyinvite someone in, so to speak, it’s David Harowitz. Barista, video game geek, and chauffeur extraordinaire. Well, he looked nice today, anyway. I don’t mean he was dressed up, because he wasn’t. But the right T-shirt makes all the difference, you know? Maybe he had plans later.
    Snap.
    Get in the game, Pelly, I thought. Focus. Get Tara back so that you can . . .
    â€œI’ve been meaning to ask you, what’s up with the rubber band?” David asked as we neared the imposing glass doors of the police department.
    â€œOh, it’s a reminder thing,” I said. David opened the door for me. “Thanks. It’s supposed to remind me to change my thought pattern.”
    â€œFrom what to what?”
    A blast of warm air smelling mostly like Clorox but a little like pee rushed out to meet us. Like a kindergarten classroom without the comforting scents of Crayolas and paste. I flinched. It was the exact same smell as six years ago.
    â€œAnything to anything else,” I said, dodging the question. Maybe I could count on David to drive me all over town or come into a police department with me. That didn’t mean I was going to drag him into my emotional toilet.
    We checked in at the front desk and got directions to Detective Larson’s desk. It hadn’t moved. I wasn’t sure whether it was a good or bad thing that everything was the same as the last time I came here.
    Larson met us at the entrance to the big room full of cubicle desks where other detectives were on phones, talking to people or each other, or, in one case, sleeping.
    â€œThanks for coming by,” Larson said after I introduced David. “Come on in here.”
    He led us into a small conference room with a folding table and a few folding chairs. We sat opposite him. Larson got right to work, handing me a sheet of color headshots. They all looked like driver license photos.
    â€œCan you pick out the man you saw yesterday?”
    I appreciated that he didn’t phrase it like “the man you think you saw.” That might’ve broken me in half. I studied the six photos. Two of them looked like the guy I’d seen. I wasn’t about to tell Larson more than one looked like him.
    Larson chitchatted with David while I studied the photos. Had David seen anything; no sir, but I was working that day; did you see anything suspicious at all; no, not really, sir . . .
    â€œThis one,” I said, pointing.
    Larson took the paper back. “Number three?”
    â€œYes,” I said. “That’s him.”
    But what if I was wrong? Eli kept the Hole in the Wall pretty dark, as part of its moody, quirky indie snarky ambience.
    Larson made a note. “Okay,” he said. “Now, I’m going to show you—”
    â€œWas that him?” I asked, and immediately thought, That sounds terrible and uncertain. “I mean, I got it right, didn’t I?”
    Larson waved me off. “Don’t worry about that,” he said.“Even if you didn’t identify the owner of the car, we’re still looking into