“Grandma says you check on her sometimes. That’s nice.”
“She’s my patient.”
I’m interviewing a hostile witness. Every answer technically polite but giving me nothing.
“I live in California now,” I offer. “LA. Tiny apartment. View of a parking lot.”
“I know. Eileen mentioned it.”
Okay. He’s not making this easy.
Fair enough. I probably don’t deserve easy.
We drive in silence until he turns onto a smaller road, and the trees open up to reveal a frozen creek, snow-covered banks, ice glinting in the sun.
My breath catches.
“The creek.”
“Yeah.” He parks. Doesn’t look at me. “Neutral territory.”
It’s not neutral. This is where ten-year-old Lucas sat down next to a crying girl trying to save a dying bird. This is where everything started.
But I don’t say that. I just nod and get out.
We walkalong the frozen creek, his careful distance saying everything his words won’t. Close enough to be polite. Far enough to be clear.
“I brought hot chocolate,” he says, pulling a battered thermos from his pocket. “If you want.”
“You still have this thermos?”
“It works.”
“It has a dent the size of my fist.”
“Character.” Almost a smile. He unscrews the cap and pours some into it, steam curling in the cold air. “The dent adds character.”
I take a sip. Rich, not too sweet, hint of cinnamon.
“You remembered.”
He watches me drink, his expression unreadable. “Some things are hard to forget.”
We keep walking. The silence feels different now. Less wall, more... waiting.
“I write for a living,” I say. “Romance novels.”
His eyebrows lift. “Romance novels.”
“Don’t make that face.”
“I’m not making a face.”
“You’re making a skeptical face.”
“This is my regular face.”
“Your regular face is skeptical?”
