Zeke finished the bacon and then stared at her with childlike enthusiasm.
“You came back,” Zeke said, his voice carrying the slightly slurred quality common to those with his condition. “Do you want some bacon?”
“No, thank you,” Brook said as she concentrated on him.
She had positioned herself diagonally from Zeke rather than directly opposite. The angle was less confrontational, creating space while still allowing clear observation of facial expressions. Deputy Benz remained standing in the archway, his presence a silent reminder of authority.
Zeke wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, the gesture careful and precise, suggesting it was part of a routine he'd been taught. His plate was almost empty now, save for the geometrically arranged bacon piece he seemed to be saving for last.
“Would it be okay if we talked about Heather Moore, Zeke?” Brook asked, keeping her voice gentle but not condescending.
“I liked Miss Heather. She was nice.” After a moment of consideration, Zeke frowned in disappointment. “Brett says she’s in heaven now, but I still remember her.”
Brook nodded encouragingly, carefully noting both Zeke's response and Brett's reaction to it. The older Sorsdal's expression had hardened again, but beneath the defensiveness, something like grief flickered momentarily in his eyes.
“I'd like to hear about her.” Brook settled into the conversation while maintaining awareness of every subtle shift in the room's dynamics. “About how you knew Miss Heather. Do you remember spending time with her? What sorts of things did you do together?”
Zeke's face brightened immediately, his eyes widening with an endearing excitement. He nodded vigorously, the movement causing a lock of his hair to fall across his forehead.
“She always let me use the best crayons,” Zeke said, the slight slurring a little more pronounced in his eagerness. “The onesthat weren't broken. And she never got mad when I pressed too hard.”
His large hands moved expressively as he spoke, demonstrating the pressure he'd apply to crayons. Despite their size, there was something delicate in the way his fingers mimicked holding a crayon, pressing down with exaggerated care. Brook noticed the contrast between his massive frame and the calmness of his gestures, a physical contradiction that seemed to mirror his place in the world—an adult with a child's mind.
“That was nice of her,” Brook affirmed, maintaining the conversational rhythm. “Where would you use these crayons, Zeke?”
“Church,” Zeke replied without hesitation, reaching for the last strip of bacon from his plate. His movements were careful, deliberate, as if he'd been taught to mind his manners especially when company was present. “Miss Heather was my teacher.”
He bit into the bacon, chewing with methodical precision before swallowing. The simple pleasure on his face as he savored the food was unguarded, devoid of the complex emotions that currently clouded his brother's expressions.
“Heather volunteered at the church's childcare center during Sunday services,” Brett interjected, still keeping his arms crossed over his chest. His tone was clipped, providing information while clearly attempting to control the narrative. “She didn’t mind Zeke hanging out there, and he enjoyed her lessons.”
Brett's gaze shifted momentarily to the deputy before returning to Brook, a silent reminder that he was monitoring every question, every answer. The tension in his shoulders hadn't eased since they'd entered the kitchen.
“Zeke, did you ever notice Miss Heather being upset about anything? Maybe worried or sad?”
Zeke's brow furrowed in concentration, creating deep lines across his forehead. He set down the half-eaten bacon strip, seeming to take the question with profound seriousness. His eyes darted briefly toward Brett, then back to Brook.
“Yes,” Zeke replied after a moment, his voice lower than before. His fingers began to fidget with the edge of his napkin, creasing and unfolding it rhythmically. “I remember I wanted the purple crayon, but it wasn't in the box. Miss Heather kept telling me to wait, but I didn't want to, and the man got mad.”
Brett straightened abruptly, taking a half-step forward.
“Zeke—”
Brook held up a hand, a subtle request for Brett to allow his brother to continue. To her mild surprise, he complied before running a hand through his hair in frustration.
“What man, Zeke?” Brook asked gently, maintaining the connection between them despite Brett's looming presence. “Can you tell me about him?”
Zeke picked up what was left of his bacon strip, the action seeming to comfort him as he worked through his memories. The kitchen had grown quieter, the clock's ticking more pronounced in the weighted silence.
“He was mad at me. And then he came to the parking lot,” Zeke continued after swallowing. “He tried talking to Miss Heather, but she kept shaking her head. I don't think she wanted to talk to him. I got really mad.”
Brett was already aware of the man’s identity. She not only wanted confirmation from Zeke, but also preferred to be armed with the facts before confronting Figg Whitlow.
“He talks loud.” Zeke shook his head emphatically, clearly getting upset over recalling the memory. “Really loud. It scared me. So I went over, and I told him to stop.”
His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Brett says I don't know my own strength sometimes.”
