Page 92 of Our Last Resort

“In a moment.”

Shit. I’ve watched enough shows to know it’s not a good sign when the police won’t allow you a drink of water.

“I need to talk to you,” he says, “about Gabriel.”

I do the only smart thing: wait for Harris to ask a question.

“What can you tell me,” he continues, “about Gabriel’s interactions with Sabrina Brenner?”

I suppress a twitch.

Interactions,plural?

Gabriel told Harris just yesterday that he never spoke to Sabrina. That was incorrect—a mistake or a lie, I’m still not sure. But either way, Harris isn’t buying it.

“How were they around each other?” he continues. “How did they address each other? Did you know them to associate?”

Associate?

Harris sounds so confident.

What do you know that I don’t?

“I didn’t know them to associate,” I say, truthfully.

Harris sighs. He leans back in his chair and studies me for a few seconds.

I know what he’s doing. So many people are uncomfortable with silence. They’ll do anything to break it. They’ll start talking. Spill secrets.

But I grew up in Émile’s world, where silence was worshipped. I could sit here all day.

“Listen,” Harris says. He puts his hands on the table, leans toward me. “I’m going to level with you.”Sure.“This could be bad for you. But if you help us, we’ll be able to help you. Do you know what I’m saying?”

I honestly don’t.

Harris sighs again and shakes his head. With a smug little smile, he tells me to wait. When he returns a minute later, he’s holding a manila folder, which he places on the table. He’s about to open it when he makes a show of being struck by a thought.

“I’m going to give you one last chance,” he says, “to tell me what you know about Gabriel and Sabrina. Once I show you this, it’s over. I can’t help you anymore.”

I sit in silence.

“Fine,” he says. “If that’s how you want to do it.”

He opens the manila folder to reveal a small stack of documents. Harris flips through them until he finds what he’s looking for, then slides the folder upside down so that it’s facing me.

It appears to be a printout of a…screenshot of a phone?

It reads “Notes” at the top. Underneath, in a large font, the words “Food Journal.”

Below that, in a much smaller font, is a painstakingly detailed account of a person’s daily intake.

Toward the bottom, between lunch and dinner, a few lines that don’t belong:

Gabriel Miller

6/12

47 Jackson St.

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