A shuffling sound inside. Scrape of a chair. Then the door jerked open, chain still engaged, so only a sliver of his face showed.
Finch glared out at her, black hair loose around his shoulders, face puffy, eyes red-rimmed. He looked worse than his mugshot. “What the hell do you want?”
She leveled a flat stare. “I need to talk to you about Leelee.”
He jerked back from the door like she’d hit him. For a second, she thought he’d slam it shut in her face, but paranoia—or pride—kept him there, peering out through the gap.
“I already told her parents everything I know.” His words slurred, sour breath leaking through the screen. “I don’t need you poking around, too.”
She didn’t blink. “That’s funny, because I talked to the Padillas and they said you weren’t much help.”
“Because there’s nothing to say!” Finch’s eyes darted, scanning the yard behind her. Classic guilty move. “We broke up. She ain’t my problem anymore.”
She set her jaw. “Leelee’s missing, Taren. You get that? Nobody’s heard from her since Tuesday. You were the last person she texted. So unless you want me to haul you down tothe station for a long, ugly interview, you’ll open the damn door and answer my questions.”
He hesitated, torn between giving in and putting on a show. The guy was a marshmallow, soft all the way through, but every drunk loser in Solace thought a little attitude would scare people off.
She waited him out.
A couple of seconds, a muttered curse, and he finally unchained the door. It banged open, nearly hitting her boots. Finch stood there in basketball shorts, stained T-shirt, and bare feet. He looked like he’d rolled out of bed and straight into a bottle.
“Happy?” he snapped, stepping aside. “You can see for yourself I’m not hiding her here.”
She walked in, careful not to snag her jacket on the busted doorjamb. The place looked even worse inside: pizza boxes stacked on the TV, a smog of cigarette smoke clinging to the curtains, and a sticky ring of cheap beer cans crowding the end table. Somewhere under the mess, a carpet fought for its life.
She took it in and didn’t say a word.
Finch shuffled to the couch and dropped onto it, rubbing his face with both hands. “Look, I told you, I haven’t seen her. She dumped me, remember?”
Naomi stayed on her feet, arms crossed. “Remind me when that was.”
He squinted up at the ceiling, thinking hard. “I dunno… Last week? Maybe Thursday. She came by to get her stuff. We argued for a minute, but that was it.”
“About what?”
He shrugged, then winced like the motion hurt. “Stupid shit.”
“Did you see her after that?”
“No!” Finch’s voice spiked, then dropped to a sullen mumble. “She told me not to call anymore. Said she was done for real this time. That’s why I was surprised when she texted Tuesday.”
She let the silence stretch, just long enough for his nerves to show.
“Tell me about the text.”
He dragged his phone from the cushions, blinking at the screen. A crack zigzagged through the display, but he found the thread and turned it so she could read. The text was short.
hey, you still up? can i tell you something?
Below it, a string of unanswered messages from Finch. All sent after two in the morning. All desperate, needy, and, honestly, kind of pathetic.
what do you want leelee?
if you’re just screwing with me don’t bother
why wont you answer?
you there?
