The Trespasser

by Tana French

I finish flipping through the last witness statement, and stop. The last page is missing. Without that—the page with the signature—the whole thing is worthless. I’ll never prove I didn’t drop it on my way back from the interview room. There’s even an outside chance that actually happened—it was late, I was tired and pissed off and hurrying to finish up by the end of my shift. I can check: wander back and forth like an idiot, peering hopefully under desks and into bins, while this roomful of tossbubbles hide behind their monitors holding back baboon-howls of laughter and waiting to see who explodes first. Or I can go on the rampage looking to string up the fucker who pinched my statement sheet, which is probably what someone is hoping I’ll do. Or I can glue my mouth shut, track down my scumbag witness and spend another couple of hours re-convincing him that talking to cops is cool and digging his statement out of him, one-syllable word by one-syllable word, all over again.