I reach out and grab Brent's arm as he begins to walk away from the rusty double doors.
"So you really saw Frankie with the knife?" I mumble, as I watch the others walk away into the darkness.
"Yeah, she just stood there with it. Apparently she found it randomly but ... it's hard to get that image out of my head."
"I just don't know what to think anymore." I reach up to scratch my scalp, but my almost nonexistent fingernails do little to relieve the itching.
It's the first piece of credible evidence I've heard so far, but although I don't know Frankie well, I just can't believe that she could be involved. The image of the man in the plaid coat is burned into my memory. I need to find out who he is.
The next morning, I wake up to find the itching unbearable. My inability to scratch properly seems to be God's way of intervening in my constant nail-biting. Running to the bathroom to find the source of my discomfort, my worst fears are confirmed. I part my hair to one side and examine my scalp to find small white demons clinging to my head. I've worked in the clinic for almost two years now, and I know what I have to do, even if it breaks my heart.
Thirty minutes later, standing just outside my shower, I stare at the clumps of hair lying defeated in the basin. Still wearing my protective gloves, I scoop the hair up and place it in a small garbage bag - along with all of my sheets. My walk to the dumpster almost seems like a funeral procession. I may be a loner, but I still want to look normal - seem normal - to people I meet. Imagine what people will think when the guy who lives alone on the 8th floor walks into the lobby with a shaved head. The odds of my instances of social interaction increasing in the near future are about slim to none at the moment.
But I shouldn't be focusing on that now. The events in my life seem almost inconsequential while trying to find out as much as possible about the life (and death) of someone else.
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