clearly expressed bitterness and resentment. It was to be expected, Brendan supposed.
“And how close were you and Rebecca?”
“How do you mean?”
“You talk regularly and stuff? I don’t know how it works. I’m an only.”
Kevin sighed. He ran a hand across his face again. Brendan glanced and saw the shine of tears. “We were close, I guess, yeah. Not always, but more since . . . we got older. Look, man, I can’t, I can’t go into this right now.” Suddenly he sat up straighter, and his voice grew louder. “Did you get her phone?”
“The CSI unit – that’s the Crime Scene Investigation team – they bagged her phone. They’d take any of her personals, like cell phone, computer, wallet, down to the lab. What about the phone?”
Kevin’s body seemed to slump again. He returned to looking out the window. There were small, modular homes alongside the road now. They were coming into Remsen. “Nothing,” he said.
“Can I ask you something?”
Kevin was quiet.
“Did your sister have any children?”
Kevin abruptly turned his head to the side to cut a look over at Brendan. His jaw was set, his lips pursed. “No,” he said.
Brendan felt like the kid was lying.
After that, they lapsed into silence.
* * *
At the diner, Brendan ordered a BLT and a coffee. Kevin said he wasn’t hungry.
“I know it’s probably not appealing,” Brendan said. “But you should eat something.”
Kevin conceded to an order of eggs and toast. He had an orange juice brought over with Brendan’s coffee. He sipped the juice, and grimaced. “Bitter,” he said. He pushed it away.
“Kevin, I’m having someone meet us here.”
The young man raised his eyebrows. He made solid eye contact most of the time, Brendan thought, but always looked away first, as he did now, scanning the other patrons in the diner. It was fairly busy for a Thursday morning. A group of four older men sat at a nearby table. One was wearing a trucker’s cap which read “American Legion” on it. They wore flannel and suspenders and their shirt pockets bulged.
Brendan and Kevin sat in one of the booths by the window. There were five booths in a row. In the next booth over, behind Kevin, Brendan observed a young woman with a baby. The child was crying as it was fed mashed potatoes.
“Who’s meeting us?”
“She’s a grief counselor,” said Brendan.
Kevin didn’t look pleased. He pushed the silverware around on his paper placemat. He glanced up at the far door as if he were considering leaving.
“You’ve been through an incredible shock,” said Brendan. “I can’t begin to imagine the loss. But, Kevin, these first 48 hours are crucial. If we’re going to find your sister’s killer, I’m going to need your help. But I don’t want to neglect your own personal needs; what you’re going through. It’s a tough situation.”
Kevin looked back at Brendan. His blue eyes seemed to darken. “Tough? Sorry, but you don’t know anything about tough right now.” He gripped the table in front of him. “I don’t like this. I don’t like counselors, all that.” Indeed, the young man seemed to be getting agitated. His eyes, glassy and red, darted around the room.
“Why is that?”
Those eyes pinned Brendan, even darker now, as if drawn into harder material, like pits. “You like to be under the microscope?”
Brendan sipped his coffee. He thought of the nervousness he’d felt this morning, coming upon his first official crime scene up here in God’s country. It still came around, sometimes, his doubt in himself. But for some reason his gut told him that this wasn’t the reason why Kevin was apprehensive. Again, it felt more like the young man had something to hide. “Nobody really likes being . . . looked into. But I think what you learn is how to be gracious.”
“Gracious,” Kevin scoffed, spitting the word.
“Are you a user?”
“Excuse me?”
Brendan kept his voice low. “I mean
“And how close were you and Rebecca?”
“How do you mean?”
“You talk regularly and stuff? I don’t know how it works. I’m an only.”
Kevin sighed. He ran a hand across his face again. Brendan glanced and saw the shine of tears. “We were close, I guess, yeah. Not always, but more since . . . we got older. Look, man, I can’t, I can’t go into this right now.” Suddenly he sat up straighter, and his voice grew louder. “Did you get her phone?”
“The CSI unit – that’s the Crime Scene Investigation team – they bagged her phone. They’d take any of her personals, like cell phone, computer, wallet, down to the lab. What about the phone?”
Kevin’s body seemed to slump again. He returned to looking out the window. There were small, modular homes alongside the road now. They were coming into Remsen. “Nothing,” he said.
“Can I ask you something?”
Kevin was quiet.
“Did your sister have any children?”
Kevin abruptly turned his head to the side to cut a look over at Brendan. His jaw was set, his lips pursed. “No,” he said.
Brendan felt like the kid was lying.
After that, they lapsed into silence.
* * *
At the diner, Brendan ordered a BLT and a coffee. Kevin said he wasn’t hungry.
“I know it’s probably not appealing,” Brendan said. “But you should eat something.”
Kevin conceded to an order of eggs and toast. He had an orange juice brought over with Brendan’s coffee. He sipped the juice, and grimaced. “Bitter,” he said. He pushed it away.
“Kevin, I’m having someone meet us here.”
The young man raised his eyebrows. He made solid eye contact most of the time, Brendan thought, but always looked away first, as he did now, scanning the other patrons in the diner. It was fairly busy for a Thursday morning. A group of four older men sat at a nearby table. One was wearing a trucker’s cap which read “American Legion” on it. They wore flannel and suspenders and their shirt pockets bulged.
Brendan and Kevin sat in one of the booths by the window. There were five booths in a row. In the next booth over, behind Kevin, Brendan observed a young woman with a baby. The child was crying as it was fed mashed potatoes.
“Who’s meeting us?”
“She’s a grief counselor,” said Brendan.
Kevin didn’t look pleased. He pushed the silverware around on his paper placemat. He glanced up at the far door as if he were considering leaving.
“You’ve been through an incredible shock,” said Brendan. “I can’t begin to imagine the loss. But, Kevin, these first 48 hours are crucial. If we’re going to find your sister’s killer, I’m going to need your help. But I don’t want to neglect your own personal needs; what you’re going through. It’s a tough situation.”
Kevin looked back at Brendan. His blue eyes seemed to darken. “Tough? Sorry, but you don’t know anything about tough right now.” He gripped the table in front of him. “I don’t like this. I don’t like counselors, all that.” Indeed, the young man seemed to be getting agitated. His eyes, glassy and red, darted around the room.
“Why is that?”
Those eyes pinned Brendan, even darker now, as if drawn into harder material, like pits. “You like to be under the microscope?”
Brendan sipped his coffee. He thought of the nervousness he’d felt this morning, coming upon his first official crime scene up here in God’s country. It still came around, sometimes, his doubt in himself. But for some reason his gut told him that this wasn’t the reason why Kevin was apprehensive. Again, it felt more like the young man had something to hide. “Nobody really likes being . . . looked into. But I think what you learn is how to be gracious.”
“Gracious,” Kevin scoffed, spitting the word.
“Are you a user?”
“Excuse me?”
Brendan kept his voice low. “I mean
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