If it hadn’t been for the faded red mailbox on the side of the road, I would have missed my destination. I squeezed the brakes and drove back, glad there wasn’t any traffic behind me. Beyond an iron fence and between clustered trees, I could just barely spot a house. The number on the mailbox confirmed I was at the right place. Since I couldn’t park on the side of the road, I eased my way through the gap in the fence, which was barely wide enough for my car to squeeze through.
I slowed to a stop when I reached the front of the one-story house. The walls had been painted blue, but time had faded them into pale gray. An old Ford was parked close by, next to a small, well-tended vegetable garden.
I killed the engine and climbed out. An angry flock of birds chirped as if urging me to turn back. Before I could take one step, I heard the approaching sound of footsteps on a wooden floor. The front door creaked open, and an older woman stepped out. The first thing I noticed was her shotgun, aimed at the floor—for now. She stood stiff like a pole, emphasizing her six-foot height. She wore black sweatpants and a denim jacket with patches, her long, gray hair blowing in the warm wind.
“Whatever you’re here to sell, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
The birds grew quiet as if to listen.
“I’m not here to sell.”
She sized me up, her face stoic and unreadable. She might have been pretty back in the day, but her demeanor was too frigid now. “Then what do you want?”
“Are you Tammy?” It felt polite to ask, although I had no doubt.
“Who’s asking?”
“Jonah Carter. I’m a friend of Hayden.”
“As in my nephew Hayden?”
“Yes.”
She sized me up again. “I assume you wouldn’t have come here if everything was okay.”
I nodded. “Can we talk inside?”
She gestured with her head for me to come in, then turned and walked inside. I exhaled and followed her. The second I stepped inside the house, I noticed the smell of herbs—not unpleasant, but overwhelming. The kitchen was small and packed with too many plants. The living room was on the other side, slightly bigger but with even less furniture than I had.
“Tea?” she asked.
I was about to decline, but this was going to be a long talk. “Yes, thank you.”
“You like your tea fruity.” A statement, not a question, but she was right. I sat at the small kitchen table, my hands on my knees. Like in my house, there were no family photos on the walls.
Standing with her back to me as she prepared the tea, she asked, “Are you Hayden’s lover?”
“I… yes.”
“He mentioned you a while back. I thought you two were over. It didn’t sound like a pleasant breakup, though he didn’t go into the specifics.”
“It wasn’t pleasant.”
I heard her crumbling leaves. “And now you two are back together?”
“Yes.”
“Sex must be good.” She put a kettle on the stove.
I didn’t know if she expected an answer, but I asked instead, “When did you last speak with Hayden?”
“He stopped by a few months ago for my birthday. He brought a carrot cake that was almost inedible, but the gesture was sweet.”
“Were you two close when he was younger?” It felt like I should know her better before confiding in her.
The kettle began to shriek. She picked it up and poured hot water into a teapot, then placed it on the table. She brought two porcelain cups and poured tea into them.
Once we both had our tea, she sat down on the other side of the small table. “Hayden and I were never close when he was growing up.” She held her cup as if oblivious to the heat. “His father was—well, is—a righteous asshole who preferred to keep his family away from hisparticularsister. When Hayden grew older and began rebelling, I was already with the Feds, and he found that interesting. When he joined the police in Phoenix, I told him he was wasting his time in the kiddie league, buthe wanted to start from the bottom. At least they were smart enough to promote him to a detective quickly.” She took a sip. “Drink. It’s not too hot.”
