Chapter 6: Seven Times, Not Eight

Ansel's POV

The boy said to come alone, to the third level of the parking garage, and to leave my phone in the car.

I brought the phone.

For years I had handed it to someone else every time I scrubbed in, and I was not letting go of it tonight.

He was standing between two concrete pillars in a faded gray sweatshirt.

He was thin, with a buzz cut and a thumbnail chewed to blood.

He looked about nineteen.

"Is she alive?" he said, before I reached him.

"Elora is alive. My daughter is alive."

His knees bent, and he caught himself on a pillar.

"I'm Eli," he said. "Eli Pratt."

I knew the name from a graduation photo taped inside Janelle's locker, a boy in a borrowed tie.

"Janelle's nephew."

"Darryl is my uncle. He's the one with the gloves." Eli's voice shook. "I watched the door. I didn't touch her. I swear I didn't touch her."

"You watched the door while she sat there."

"Yes, sir."

I wanted to put him against the pillar.

I am a surgeon, so I put my hand in my pocket and made a fist where nobody could see it.

"Why am I here?"

He took a cheap black phone out of his sweatshirt, and his hands could hardly hold it.

"My uncle records every call," Eli said. "He does it so Aunt Janelle can never say he didn't do what she paid for."

"I took this off his bench tonight. You should hear it first. Then you can hit me."

He pressed play.

It was a woman's voice, near and clear, in what sounded like a kitchen with a kettle ticking.

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