Tom opted out of classes after his meeting with Daniels. He spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon inside his apartment, collecting his thoughts. Melanie was busy with classes all day, and if she wasn’t, Tom wouldn’t know anyways. He wouldn’t know if a friend wanted to meet up for a midday rendezvous in a gazebo at the park. He wouldn’t know if Daniels wanted to badger him further, and he wouldn’t know if his parents had found out their son was a murder suspect.

For the first time he could remember, Tom turned off his phone for half the day. While aware of his cliché faux wisdom, he couldn’t deny that it let him think with a startling clarity that he’d lacked within the past 24 hours.

His meeting with Daniels had only confirmed that the detective couldn’t arrest him. He was grasping at straws, even if Tom was the only one to grasp at.

“Can’t blame him.” Who else would anyone in their right mind suspect but the guy who showed up prior to each murder? The answer was clear, but the reality just wasn’t so. “Where’s my weapon, huh Daniels? Where’s my motive, for starters?” That was always how these things went; Tom knew that much from TV.

The next logical question baffled Tom and frightened him more than he could have imagined.

“Who the hell is doing this? Why are they murdering people I deliver food to?” He had tip toed around his next thought for as long as he could, but at this point, he could think of nothing else.

“When is it my turn?”

Hours passed and he needed to take his mind elsewhere. It was time to turn on his phone.

The usual texts were awaiting him — Melanie asking what he was doing for lunch, friends asking when he got off of work. He had completely forgotten he was on schedule tonight.

Even worse, he was an hour late for his shift. He put his shoes on and grabbed his keys, too hurried to think how odd it was that his manager hadn’t sent him a text about being late.

When he got to Tonino’s, he made eye contact with the owner, Nick, through the window. Nick turned to the manager and said something before moving to meet Tom at the door.

“Nope,” was the first thing out of his mouth as he approached Tom.

“Nick, I’m sorry I’m late, but I’m ready to work now.” Tom saw something else in Nick’s eyes, though. Something more than, “You’re late.”

“You don’t work here. Tell that to the reporters,” Nick said, glancing at the mounted TV that was usually playing sports. Tonight, though, Tom filled the frame, walking away from the police station in the rain.

“You don’t understand, listen — ”

“Out!” he shouted.

“Nick,” Tom started, but his boss had had enough. He shoved Tom towards the door, pushing him over a table and onto the floor.

Tom looked up at his coworkers, searching each face for aid. Brian,  who had been drinking with him only days ago, had nothing to say in Tom’s defense. The waitresses were even less help. They only stared blankly at him, offering nothing.