“He doesn’t need intervention, Brady. He needs comfort while he dies.”
Brady swipes at the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb. “And you’re not worried you’ll feel guilty after?”
“For what?”
Brady’s expression is earnest, and it’s starting to annoy me. He’s the real-life equivalent of Captain America. “If you’re not part of the solution—”
“I’m part of the problem?” Grabbing hot sauce from the end of the table, I twist off the cap and shake it over my food. “I’m not the cancer, Brady. I’m not killing him.”
“I never said you were the killer, Finn.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Brady’s gaze hardens. “I didn’t say that back then, either.”
“You doubted me.”
Brady looks away, his gaze on something other than me. I don’t need him to admit it. We both know it’s true. Brady went to bat for me, sending his lawyer to the station to save me, but I knew he wondered.
Honestly, it was easy to cast a suspicious glance my way. Back then I was angry pretty much all the time and prone to emotional outbursts. Add to it that I told Brady I wanted to kill the fucker for what he did to Lennon, and of course I’d be a natural suspect. I meant it, too. Iwantedto kill him.
I lean against the padded seat back of the booth. “Water under the bridge, man.” I say it because it’s easier to let it go. The sting of Brady’s doubt has never truly left me, like a wound that refuses to heal. I told the police I had nothing to do with Lennon’s stepdad taking a sudden dirt nap. Their disbelief didn’t surprise me. Much like my uncle’s refusal to stop smoking, it seemed natural.
“Right. Water under the bridge,” Brady echoes.
Small talk carries us through the rest of breakfast. Brady talks about his firm and speaks carefully about a new case. His voice is devoid of any excitement.
We get up to leave, and as I’m tossing a few dollars onto the table Brady’s hand lands on my shoulder.
“Jeff might not say it, but I’m betting if there were anything to live for, it’d be you.”
11
Now
“Oh my god,Laine. I’m so happy to hear your voice.” I switch my phone to my left ear and lift a shoulder to keep it there. I need both hands to carry this box out to the car.
“How’s it going out there?”
I set the box in the car with a loud huff and turn around, resting half my behind on the trunk. Down the street, someone rolls their garbage can out to the curb. He waves, and I wave back.
“Someone down the street is taking their trash to the curb.” I pause, planting both feet on the ground and standing to stretch.
“And that’s bad because…?”
“The garbage truck comes tomorrow. And it’s only nine in the morning here. That’s not bad, Laine. That’ssad. Does this person live a life that will produce no more garbage between now and tomorrow morning?”
“Depressing.”
“I know. Maybe theyaredepressed. Maybe—”
“No,” Laine interrupts me. “I mean you. You’re depressing.”
“Oh.”
I head back inside to resume the job I’ve been doing since I woke at five, the sun screaming into my face because I forgot to close the curtains. Why did my mom have to die in the summertime? Couldn’t she have passed away in March? Arizona is lovely in March.
“Is it tough being there?” Laine asks, her volume decreasing as the sound of her concern increases.
