We sat in the three mismatched chairs I had bought at a garage sale on the east side of the city.

Detective Sloan, his junior partner, opened a small black flip-book and held a pen ready over the first blank page.

“We are trying to understand Caleb’s movements,” Harris said, setting his silver ballpoint pen on the table beside the key ring.

“Particularly his history when things do not go his way.”

I looked at the brass keys, which caught the yellow light from the ceiling fixture.

“Caleb does not handle disappointment,” I said, my voice flat.