“Andre,” she whispered. “Something happened to my baby.”
“Let’s sit down, ma’am.”
The apartment was small but immaculate. A floral couch with hand-crocheted throw pillows. A bookshelf filled with photos—Andre in his Marine dress blues, Andre as a gap-toothed kid in a Little League uniform, Andre and his mother at what looked like his high school graduation. Everywhere I looked, there was evidence of a mother’s love, a mother’s pride.
Loretta sank onto the couch like her legs had given out. I sat beside her while Jack took the armchair across from us.
“Mrs. Washington,” Jack said, “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this. Your son Andre was found deceased early this morning.”
The sound she made wasn’t a scream. It was worse—a low, keening moan that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her, a place where words couldn’t reach. I put my hand on her arm and let her cry, let the first wave of grief wash over her without trying to stem it.
Some things you couldn’t fix. You could only witness.
When the sobs finally quieted to shuddering breaths, I reached over to the box of tissues on the end table and pressed a few into her hand. She took them with trembling fingers, dabbing at her eyes, her cheeks, the tears that kept coming no matter how many she wiped away.
Jack gave her a moment. He was good at that—knowing when to push and when to wait. It was one of the things that made him good at this job, even the parts of it he hated.
“Mrs. Washington,” he said gently, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, “I know this is going to be difficult, but we need your help. We need to find the person who killed Andre.”
She looked up at him, her eyes red rimmed and devastated. “Who did this? Someone—someone killed my boy?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re investigating this as a homicide.”
The word hit her like a physical blow. She folded in on herself, arms wrapping around her middle as if she could hold herself together through sheer force of will. Fresh tears slid down her cheeks, but she didn’t make a sound. This grief was quieter, deeper—the kind that settled into your bones and never fully left.
“I knew,” she whispered. “I knew something was wrong. He didn’t call me back. Andre always calls me back, even if it takes him a day or two. But it’s been almost a week, and I kept telling myself he was busy, working overtime, maybe he met a girl and lost track of time.” She pressed the tissues to her mouth. “But I knew. A mother knows. I felt it in here.” She touched her chest, right over her heart.
“When did you last speak to him?” I asked, keeping my voice soft.
“Thursday night.” A smile crossed her face. “He called to check on me, like he always does. Every Thursday, sometimes Sunday too. We talked for maybe twenty minutes about nothing much—what I was cooking for dinner, how his week went, whether I’d watched that show he told me about.” Her voice cracked. “He sounded good. Happy. Said he had something to celebrate, but he wouldn’t tell me what. Said it was a surprise. I told him I was too old for surprises, and he just laughed.”
“Did he mention any plans for the weekend?” Jack asked. “Anywhere he was going, anyone he was meeting?”
Loretta shook her head slowly, her gaze drifting to the photos on the bookshelf. Her boy in his dress blues. Her boy as a gap-toothed kid. Her boy, frozen in time, never getting any older.
“He didn’t say. Andre was private like that. Even when he was little, he kept things close to his chest. Didn’t like to worry me.” She let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “He thought I didn’t notice. But I always noticed. I just learned to let him tell me things in his own time.”
“What about his work?” Jack shifted slightly, his voice still gentle but probing. “Did he ever mention any problems at King Construction? Conflicts with co-workers?”
“No, nothing like that. He liked that job. Said the crew was good, treated him with respect.” Her hands were still twisting in her lap, the tissues shredded between her fingers. “He was saving up, you know. Wanted to buy a house someday, maybe start his own business. Something with his hands—he was always good with his hands.” Her voice wavered, stretched thin. “He was so smart, my Andre. Could have been anything he wanted.”
I let the silence hold for a moment before asking, “Did he have a girlfriend? Anyone he was seeing?”
There was a brief flicker of light in Loretta’s expression. “There was someone. He didn’t talk about her much, not directly. But a mother knows.” She touched her cheek, wiping away a tear that had escaped. “He’d get this look on his face sometimes when his phone buzzed. This little smile, like he had a secret. I asked him about it once, and he just said it was early days, he didn’t want to jinx it. Said he’d bring her to meet me when things got more serious.”
“Do you know her name?”
“No. He never said. I didn’t push.” Her face crumpled again. “I should have pushed. I should have asked more questions, made him tell me?—”
“Mrs. Washington.” I reached out and covered her hand with mine. “You couldn’t have known. None of this is your fault.”
She looked at me with eyes that wanted to believe it but couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“What about friends?” Jack asked after a moment. “Anyone he spent time with regularly?”
Loretta drew a shaky breath. “Some buddies from the Marines. They’d get together now and then, have a beer, watch a game. And there was his trainer—Vic something. Italian name, I think. They’d been working together for a while now.”
Jack and I exchanged a glance. “His trainer?”
