And that stops my judgment in its tracks, like a dog hitting the end of its leash.
“What did your parents do?” I ask.
“My mother was in the industry of keeping us alive.” There’s no bitterness in his voice, just fact. “So she did any job that would hire her that week. Unfortunately, she wasn’t particularly good at keeping those jobs. She had a habit of not showing up when she was supposed to. Or showing up in a state employers tend to frown upon.”
“And your father?”
“Ah.” Leo’s mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. “He had a much simpler career path. He specialized in finding the bottom of bottles and occasionally remembering he had a family. He wasn’t very good at the second part, but he really excelled at the first.”
The words are light, like he’s trying to pretend this is just a wry anecdote instead of a wound.
I know that trick. I use it myself.
“Are your parents still together?” I ask.
“Yes, they’re still together. I’m not the child of a broken home.” He pauses and considers for a moment. “More like thechild of a home that never worked properly in the first place, but was never condemned. Which is probably a shame in hindsight.”
The intercom buzzes, slicing through the moment.
“That’ll be the food.” Leo’s already on his feet, moving toward the door.
Shit.
I run a hand through my hair.
That was more than I expected. Probably more than he meant to share, given how fast he moved when the intercom gave him an exit.
So Leo Brennan, with his three-piece suits and his air of having everything meticulously under control, grew up in chaos.
Interesting. And slightly heartbreaking to contemplate.
He comes back from the kitchen with a plateful of Thai for each of us and a determined set to his jaw.
“You want to watch some TV?”
He obviously doesn’t want to continue the deep-and-meaningful. Which is fine by me.
“Sure,” I say. “I don’t watch much TV, but I’m happy to watch whatever.”
“Crime drama? There’s a Nordic noir series that’s supposed to be excellent. Want to try it?”
I shrug. “Why not. I could use some murder with my noodles.”
Leo puts on a Scandinavian thing with a brooding detective and a body in the first five minutes. Perfect.
I give the first episode’s killer seven minutes.
“It’s the son-in-law,” I say through a mouthful of noodles.
Leo raises his eyebrows. “Based on?”
“He said he hadn’t been to the house in months. But when the detective opened the fridge, there was a brand of hot sauce in there that they showed in the son-in-law’s apartment in the establishing shot. Same brand. Same weird imported label.” Ipoint my fork at the screen. “Someone’s been visiting more recently than they claim.”
“That could be a coincidence. People buy the same hot sauce.”
“Not this one. Look at it. It’s got a Lithuanian label. That’s not a coincidence. That’s sloppy lying.”
The son-in-law is arrested forty-three minutes later. The hot sauce is mentioned. I try not to look smug, but I fail.
