Chapter Six #2
“Start from the beginning,” I say, feigning confidence. “The release order is on my website. If you like the first one, you’ll be able to see my writing progress as you work your way through the books.”
Mari grins. “That’s better. I’ll visit your website. What is it? The Pitiful Petra dot com?”
She laughs at her own joke, but then says “Kidding” before I have time to find the humor in it.
“You just act so pitiful when it comes to your career. I’m gonna compliment that pitiful out of you before you leave here,” she says as she stands.
“Let me know if you ever need a shopping break. I’m going estate hunting in the morning if you’re interested. ”
“Not sure I need the distraction yet,” I admit.
“I’ll text you before I leave, just in case,” she says. She grabs her pan and heads toward the door. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and Louie will have a heart attack so we have an excuse to call the cops over here again.”
“Jesus, Mari.”
“A mild one,” she says, dismissively. “I don’t want him to die. Who would drive me to Los Angeles for all my auditions?” She winks at me and then closes the door behind her.
I stand up and lock it, then walk back over to the table.
I pick up the business card sitting next to my laptop. I scroll my thumb over Detective Saint’s name, wondering what people call him. There are so many possibilities, but I imagine I’d call him Saint if I knew him on a more intimate level.
Do people call him Nathaniel? It seems too formal, too stiff for someone who carried himself with such confidence and ease.
Maybe they call him Nathan, a little more approachable, relaxed. Or maybe he’s just Nate to those closest to him. Or is he simply Detective to everyone?
Whatever people call him, I’ve been anxiously waiting for him to show back up. I should have asked Mari if they mentioned to her that they might return for a statement.
Surely, he’d need to take my statement, right?
Last night, he said he’d be in touch today, or that someone from the precinct would be, and a part of me has been counting down the hours, expecting to hear the knock on my door any minute before the workday ended.
But as the afternoon dragged on and the sun started to sink lower in the sky, I realized it was already nearing six o’clock, and I still hadn’t heard from him.
Just one knock, and it was Mari instead of the man I was hoping it would be.
Maybe they decided against asking the residents for statements after all. Maybe, in the light of day, they realized it was a waste of time, that the case was open and shut. Like Mari said, the man who died took his own life. Isn’t much more to investigate.
The thought feels logical, but it also leaves me with an odd sense of disappointment. I have a million questions about the events of last night, and not just for my own peace of mind.
For a writer, this is a rare opportunity. A chance to talk to a real detective, to ask him the kinds of questions that could add a layer of authenticity to my book. How often do I have a muse at my door, straight out of my work in progress?
And yet, the day is slipping away, and it seems like that opportunity might not come.
Still, part of me doesn’t want to let it go.
What if I text him? Just to check in, to see if they still need my statement.
I could frame it as a polite inquiry, but it would also be a subtle way to get him to respond, to reestablish that contact.
And if nothing else, maybe it would open the door for me to ask some of the research questions that have been building in my mind since last night.
My fingers hover over my phone screen for a moment, debating if this is a good idea. Finally, I look at the business card phone number and type out a quick message.
Hi. It’s Petra Rose. Do you guys still need a statement from me?
I hit send before I can second-guess myself. The text is straightforward, professional, but also casual enough that it won’t seem out of place if he responds.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Maybe a delayed response, or a formal reply from one of his colleagues from a different phone number.
But to my surprise, my phone vibrates almost immediately.
His response comes back faster than I anticipated, and there’s something about that speed that makes my heart skip a beat.
We’ve been short-handed today. Sorry about that. If it’s not too late, I can swing by on my way home.
I reread his text, my stomach swirling at the thought of seeing him again.
There’s something casual yet considerate in his tone, like he’s apologizing for being late to an unscheduled appointment, while also offering to make it up to me.
And though it’s all business on the surface, I can’t help but feel a surge of excitement roll through me at the thought of him stopping by, even if it’s just to take my statement.
Sounds good. If you have a few minutes while you’re here, I have questions about some scenes I’m writing. I could really benefit from picking the brain of a police officer.
I send the message quickly before I can overthink it.
It’s true—I do need some insight for my book, and having an actual detective to talk to is an opportunity I can’t pass up.
But if I’m honest with myself, it’s more than that.
There’s a part of me that just wants to see him again, to spend a little more time in his presence, to feel that strange mix of curiosity and attraction that he sparked the first time he showed up at my door.
I’m all yours. Be there in an hour.
His response comes almost immediately, and it’s that first sentence that makes my breath catch. I’m all yours. It’s a simple phrase, probably meant as a professional gesture, but it hits me in a way I didn’t expect. Excitement rolls through me, warm and electric, as I read it again.
I don’t even hesitate. I immediately rush to my bedroom to change clothes.
I glance at myself in the mirror, realizing with a bit of embarrassment that I’ve already changed three times today, each outfit picked with the possibility in mind that he might come back.
It’s ridiculous, I know. I don’t normally bring many cute clothing items when I hole up in a cabin to write.
My usual wardrobe consists of sweatpants, old T-shirts, and a few hoodies I rotate depending on the weather.
I’ll pack maybe one or two jeans and shirts that I use in case I get a wild hair and go to the grocery store.
The most flattering thing I have with me that doesn’t scream trying too hard is a sundress that could easily pass as something I’d lounge around in on a lazy afternoon.
I slip it on, smooth it down, and decide to go barefoot to keep the look casual.
I pull my hair up in a messy bun, just loose enough to look effortless, and put on the slightest touch of makeup.
Just enough to give my skin a subtle glow, to make it look like I haven’t tried at all.
It’s a delicate balance, one I don’t often concern myself with, but tonight feels different.
I sit at the kitchen table, trying to focus on the questions I want to ask him about my book while I wait for his arrival.
I jot down a few actual procedural questions I have, but then write a few fake questions I don’t actually have, framing them in a way that makes it seem like I’m being productive, like this is purely for research purposes. But it’s for entirely selfish reasons.
Last night, after he left and I wrote several chapters, I was filled with a euphoria I haven’t felt in years.
There’s something about putting a real-life face to my fictional character that made the story flow effortlessly.
I’ve always imagined Cam in a vague, abstract way, but now that he’s based on someone who actually exists—someone I’ve met—it feels like the words are coming to life in a way they haven’t before.
The knowledge that Cam is now inspired by Detective Nathaniel Saint has done wonders for my confidence in this story.
It helps minimize the nagging fear I always have that readers will call my work unrealistic.
How could it be unrealistic if I’m writing Reya’s reactions to Cam based on my own reactions to Detective Saint?
I’ve never felt more in tune with my character, and it’s all because of him.
When the knock finally comes, my heart leaps into my throat.
But instead of rushing to answer, I force myself to pause.
I stand on the other side of the door, my hand hovering over the handle, and I count to thirty.
I want it to seem like I’m preoccupied, like I haven’t been waiting all day for this moment.
Taking a deep breath, I finally open the door, ready to see where this next chapter takes me. I try to seem collected, determined to maintain some semblance of professionalism. But the moment I see him, all my composure slips away.
I’m shocked to see him out of uniform. Instead of sporting the crisp, authoritative look I’ve come to associate with him, he’s dressed casually, and I do exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t do. I check him out.
My eyes can’t help but scan him from head to toe, taking in every detail.
He’s wearing faded jeans, the kind that look soft from years of wear, with a few paint splatters on them that give him an effortlessly rugged look.
His T-shirt, snug enough to show off the lean lines of his torso, has a fist up in the air and the word Gonzo printed across it.
A Hunter S. Thompson T-shirt. I wonder if that was deliberate, if he’s making some kind of subtle, intellectual nod toward my writing career, or if it’s just a coincidence.
Either way, it catches my attention, and I can’t deny that he looks even better out of uniform than I could have imagined.
“Nice shirt,” I say, holding the door open a little wider, trying to sound casual even though my heart is still racing.