The Night Of by Michael Lister

Author:Michael Lister
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pulpwood Press

Thirty-One

“So we don’t know exactly what time they left, but at some point durin’ the night in question, Nora and Emma leave Footprints,” Blade is saying.

We are back in the car. I’m driving. She is reading from a timeline she created. We’re not sure if the Palm County investigation includes a timeline, but the copy of the Bay County file that Pete gave us doesn’t have one—something that matches the general and pervasive thinness of the file and probably the investigation.

“As best I can tell,” she says, “her first stop was Cloud Nine.”

“Well, let’s head there,” I say.

The traffic on Back Beach is light—even for off-season—and we make good time.

“You see how Miss Liz reacted when I asked about Ted?” she says.

“I did.”

“Somethin’ there,” she says.

I nod. “Could just be that he makes her nervous. She knows not to talk about him.”

“Yeah, or he could be behind Nora and Emma’s disappearance.”

“Or that,” I say.

She returns her attention to her timeline as we head up the overpass and onto the Hathaway Bridge.

“I’m not sure how long she stayed or if she went anywhere else in between,” Blade says, “but less than an hour later, she fills her car up at Dodge’s.”

“Okay,” I say. “So she leaves the beach, drives into town, stops by Cloud Nine. Then an hour later she’s still in town.”

“Right. We know from the Dodge’s receipt. We know other things from that receipt too—like she filled up and it was less than three hours before she called 911.”

“Car like hers,” I say, “full or nearly full of gas, you could drive around for three solid hours and not run out of gas.”

“She should’ve had a half or more,” she says.

“Unless . . . Are we sure she put it all in her car?”

She nods. “Store clerk statement and surveillance footage. We don’t have the footage, but it’s in the case file notes and there are a few stills captured from the video.”

“So she was sabotaged—most likely from siphoning. It’d be nearly impossible to put a hole in a gas tank. Wonder why she didn’t stop and get more gas when the low fuel light came on.”

“Could’ve thought she had more than she did,” she says. “Maybe she was lookin’ for a gas station when she ran out—didn’t know how desolate it was out there. And she was only a couple of minutes from a gas station. Or maybe she didn’t have any money.”

I nod again and think about it. “All reasonable, even likely possibilities.”

“We only know of one more stop she made,” she says. “Couple of eyewitnesses have her at the Twisted Spoke Saloon about an hour after she filled up at Dodge’s.”

The Twisted Spoke is a biker bar on the beach. It’s rough and rowdy, even dangerous. Not tourist friendly. Actually, not friendly to anyone. And not the kind of place I’d ever expect someone like Nora to go.

“According to them she was only there about a half hour or less,” she continues, “so that leaves another

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