"It’s easiest to recall things when calm and comfortable," I explained, glossing over how I also disposed of my own clothes from that day. “Why don’t we read for a while? We could even discuss some of our favorite novels. We’ll get to our investigation later.”
“Maybe we should just get to work,” he said, now unable to meet my eyes and painting an all-too familiar picture.
“What are you reading now?” I asked.
“Uh, well… there’s so many I’ve started. It’s hard to just look at one.”
John sat the book down, frowning at it uncertainly. He continued to exhibit several tells for evasive behavior that I frequently saw when people with information about a crime knew more than they were saying. Why was he uncomfortable now?
“It’s okay. I don’t expect you to have gotten through all of them—” he fidgeted more as I spoke and it hit me. “Or—oranyof them?”
Already unsure about my ability to counsel anyone to this extent, now I apparently wasn’t fit to be a detective either. I should have picked up on the clues sooner. But John was the only rewarding part of my job right now, connecting with him was the highlight of—who knew, of a long time, of all my time in Ashvale, possibly only second to becoming a real brother to Lucas with more than just our DNA connecting us.
So John and I sharing the same interest excited me and I’d been blind to the truth. He hated reading.
“If you don’t like reading it’s okay. I won’t be upset with you, I swear, John. I don’t have to bring you books anymore.”
John jolted up in alarm. "No!"
"Seriously, it’s alright. You don’t need to pretend on my account."
"But I likereceivingthe books,” he insisted. “And you make them sound so interesting.”
Even with him back at rehab, his room still looked empty on the surface. John kept gifts people gave him tucked away in his dresser, even his blanket was stored in a compartment under the bed when not in use. He kept them all safe and out of sight where nobody could snatch them.
But now books filled the space, on the table, on top of the dresser, some piled up on the floor. The books were gifts I picked out specifically for him, so they weren’t the worst thing to fill the room with. It would be better if he liked the books. This room should fill up with whatever he chose. Books weren’t it.
“Not everyone likes reading. That’s alright,” I assured. "Even if you hate this one.” I pluckedThe Little Princeoff the table by his bed, dumping it in the trashcan to demonstrate. “That’s one of my favorites. Burn it for all I care. My eye will twitch, but itwon’t change anything between us."
“Cool,” he said eventually, shooting me a relieved smile. All his smiles were small, like little secrets he hesitated to reveal, which must be why even the faintest hint of happiness on his face looked so bright.
He carefully retrieved the book from the trashcan and set it gently on his bedside table. He glanced at me and took a deep breath. “There is one, kinda. I like…”
"Oh, you found something you like reading? Great, that’s what’s important.”
I pressed my lips together, trying to hide my curiosity and not rush him as he needed time to process all this. Then he started lifting one corner of his mattress, and it felt like watching a slow motion car wreck. Fear struck me, unable to stop the impending disaster. This would get really awkward if he were about to show me a Playboy or something. Who even gave him porn? …Chase? If he seriously thought dirty magazines were appropriate—
“This one’s good." John held out a slim edition with glossy pages. Not a magazine, a comic book. A familiar blue and red masked hero decorated the front cover. Spiderman.
Oh, thank god. Comics, not porn.
"Where’d you get this?" I wondered.
“Um, from Chase? He thought I needed reading material to help get me through my reading material.”
“And you do enjoy them?”
“Yeah. They’re fun and easy to read and…” he flipped to a dog-eared page, an action scene full of color and expertly illustrated images. Spiderman swinging from his web into a battle, defeating the bad guys.
“You like the drawings?” I guessed.
“I do.” His fingers traced the lines of the masked hero on the page with reverence. “Sometimes when I look at the colors or when seeing the whole picture for the first time, it takes my breath away and I feel… I like how it makes me feel. Then I think, sometimes I think I can do this too. Maybe I used to draw?”
Huh. We discovered a potential break through after all.
The rehab center offered various activities both for free time and as part of recovery exercise, so after a bit of getting directions and navigating the hallways, we found the art room. After silently marveling at just about everything, he selected a simple blank page and some charcoals. I grabbed some clay to play with instead of hovering and watching him.
The clay and I soon began wrestling for superiority. I’d rather not say who was winning.
