I stand without answering and walk out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind me. The night air is cold and damp. I read the message again.
Adela: You can call me if it's easier. I know guys don't like to text.
I stare at those words, something twisting in my chest.
She'd rather talk. On the phone. To a near stranger who happened to be kind to her in a parking lot for four minutes. That's how thin her footing is right now.
I wait two full minutes before I call.
She answers on the second ring. "Hello?" Soft. Almost surprised, even though she asked me to.
"You texted," I say.
The warmth in her voice retreats slightly. "Yeah."
"What is it?"
"Right." A breath. "Were you — were you friends with Cody? Like, actually?"
"We played on the same team. He was our forward."
"Okay." I hear her swallow. "Did he have problems with anyone? On the team?"
"Not that I saw." The lie comes out smooth and clean.
"So there's no chance someone from the team did this to him?"
"No." I lean against the railing, staring at the dark street. "We have our moments. But at the end of the day, we're family."
The word lands wrong in my own mouth. I let it sit there anyway.
"No one came to visit him," she says, and her voice has hardened. "I'm suspicious."
"Of the team?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to come to practice?" The offer leaves me before I've fully decided on it. "Meet Coach. Meet the guys. Might make it harder to suspect us when you have faces."
She's quiet for a moment. "When?"
"Tomorrow."
"I have class."
"Congratulations. You're officially a UW student."
"Thank you," she says, missing the sarcasm.
There's a pause. "Have the police interviewed any of you?"
"No. Should they have?"
"I don't know. I just thought — if you're like a family—"
"Then maybe they should interview everyone in his classes. Everyone we play against. Everyone he spent time with, including your friends." I keep my voice even. Not aggressive. Just logical.
"Okay," she says.
