Noah's hand stopped halfway to his mouth. “About what?”
"Ethan didn't say. Just that Grandpa wanted to check in." She shrugged. "I thought it was nice."
Noah set his mug down. Hugh Sutherland did not call to check in. His father called when he wanted something or when he was managing something. The question was which.
Before he could respond, a door opened down the hall. Footsteps followed. Ethan appeared in the kitchen, moving past them toward the fridge without eye contact. He was taller than Noah remembered noticing, as if the summer had stretched him. He wore new sneakers and a black T-shirt Noah hadn't seen before.
"Morning, son,” Noah said.
"Hey."
"There's eggs."
“Nah, I’m good." Ethan grabbed a bottle of water and turned to leave.
“Hey, uh, Ethan.”
“What?”
"Sit down for a minute."
Ethan stopped but didn't sit. He stood near the counter with the bottle in his hand and his eyes somewhere past Noah's shoulder.
"How are you doing?"
Ethan shrugged.
“We haven’t seen much of you. You've been in your room for days."
"Not all the time. I've been out."
"Out where?"
Ethan scowled. "Around. Does it matter?"
Noah held his gaze. He wanted to ask about Hugh's phone call. About the new sneakers. About the business card that had migrated from a crumpled pocket to a flat surface on the kitchen counter. Instead, he said, "I'm here if you want to talk."
"I don't." Ethan turned and walked toward the hallway.
"Ethan." His son stopped in the doorframe but didn't turn around. Noah heard him sigh. Noah stared at the back of his head, at the tension in his shoulders, at the distance between them that had nothing to do with the length of the hall. "Secrets don't protect people. They just delay the damage."
Ethan didn’t reply. He walked on. His door closed.
Mia pushed her plate away. "That went well."
"Thanks for the commentary."
She almost smiled.
Noah picked up the Luther card from the counter and turned it over. Nothing on the back. He set it down exactly where it had been and went to get dressed.
***
The drive to Ray Brook took fifteen minutes on a good day. Noah took Route 86 west through the corridor between the mountains. His windows were down, allowing the air to carry in the smell of balsam. Troop B headquarters sat at the edge of the village, a low brick building that housed BCI and the State Police. His parking spot had collected pine needles in the weeks he had been on leave after the Holt case. He brushed them off the windshield and went inside.
The office was still the same. Fluorescent lights. Gray carpet. The hum of desktop computers and the smell of burned coffee that had been sitting on the warmer since six. Declan Porter was at his desk, phone pressed to his ear, scribbling something on a legal pad. He gave Noah a nod. Two other investigators were working across the room, neither of whom looked up.
Savannah's door was open.
