PART 10 – The More I Tried to Make Sense of Nolan’s Calls, the More I Realized That I Needed Facts Before I Could Ask Anyone to Explain Them

I checked my phone again.

I told myself I was only making sure it had not gone silent because the battery had died.

That was not the whole truth.

I wanted to know whether Nolan had called again.

He had not.

The three earlier calls remained in the list.

I looked at them for several seconds before locking the screen.

There was something unsettling about seeing them recorded so plainly.

Three entries.

Three times.

No explanation attached.

I had spent years looking at call records in cases where timing mattered.

I knew that a record could establish that one person tried to reach another.

It could not, by itself, establish what the caller wanted or what the recipient understood.

I had said those words more than once in court.

Now I was the person trying to read meaning into a list of calls.

I put the phone away.

I did not want to become my own worst witness.

The officers continued working at the garage.

I could not tell whether they were close to opening the door.

I had no way to know how much time had passed since they arrived.

The rain had become lighter.

Water still dripped from the maple branches, landing on the concrete around my feet.

I shifted my weight and looked toward the alley entrance.

Nothing had changed there.

I turned back.

The garage remained closed.

I wondered whether Nolan knew I had called the police.

The thought came suddenly.

I had no evidence that he did.

I did not even know whether he knew where I was.

Still, the question stayed with me.

If he knew, how would he have learned it?

If he did not, why had he called three times?

There were ordinary explanations for both possibilities.

I had to leave room for them.

I had to leave room for every possibility until I knew more.

That was the discipline I had relied on for decades.

I was beginning to understand that discipline was not the absence of suspicion.

It was the refusal to let suspicion decide the case before the evidence arrived.

I took another breath.

My hands had stopped shaking quite so badly.

I noticed because I was no longer gripping the phone hard enough to hurt my fingers.

That small change gave me something to hold on to.

I could be afraid and still pay attention.

I could be frightened and still avoid making assumptions.

I could be a mother without abandoning everything I had learned as a prosecutor.

I had not always understood how those roles could exist together.

I had treated them as separate parts of myself.

One belonged at home.

The other belonged in court.

But there was no courtroom to enter now.

There was only the garage.

I had to use everything I knew without pretending that knowledge could protect me from every possible outcome.

An officer turned toward me.

I thought he was about to speak.

He only checked that I remained at a safe distance.

I nodded.

He returned to the door.

I felt a brief wave of frustration.

I wanted him to tell me something.

Anything.

But there was nothing new to report.

I understood that.

I still wished it were different.

I looked at the lock again.

I wondered whether whoever had secured it had used a key or fastened it by hand.

I wondered whether there might be another entrance.

I wondered whether the person inside could reach the door.

The questions came so quickly that I had to stop myself from following each one.

I did not know enough to answer them.

I had no right to fill in the missing details with whatever frightened me most.

I had already reported what I heard.

The officers had the information they needed from me.

Now I had to let them investigate.

I watched the rainwater run along the edge of the pavement.

A small leaf had caught near the drain.

It moved whenever more water reached it, then settled again.

I found myself watching the leaf longer than necessary.

I was grateful for the distraction.

My mind needed a break from the door.

But every time I looked away, I worried that I might miss something important.

So I looked back.

The garage had not changed.

The lock remained in place.

I could not hear any movement from inside.

I remembered the cough and the knocks with a clarity that made them seem almost present.

I wondered whether I had heard the sounds correctly.

Then I reminded myself that uncertainty about their meaning did not erase the fact that I had heard them.

I did not need to question my own memory simply because I was afraid of what it might mean.

I could remain open to correction without dismissing my experience.

That distinction mattered.

I had seen people become so frightened of being wrong that they refused to report what they had witnessed.

I had seen others become so committed to their first interpretation that they could no longer consider anything else.

I wanted to do neither.

I would tell the truth about what I heard.

I would not claim to know who had made the sounds until I had evidence.

I would answer questions honestly.

And when I finally had a chance to speak to Nolan, I would ask him why he had called.

I would not accuse him before hearing his answer.

That decision felt right.

It did not feel easy.

I slipped my phone deeper into my pocket.

The officer closest to the door adjusted his stance.

His colleague remained beside him.

I watched their hands and tried to keep my breathing steady.

I could not make the garage open.

I could not force the truth to arrive on my schedule.

I could only remain ready to hear it.

Click here to continue reading: PART 11: I Had Always Believed Waiting Was the Easy Part of an Investigation, Until Every Second Seemed to Depend on Someone Opening One Door