I look back at Chief. He gives me a half-shrug that seems to sayI tried. He was outvoted, and he’s not happy about it.
Great. So I’m stuck with the one brother who absolutely, definitely, did not want me here. I grab my bag and hurry after Trunk. His legs are approximately twice the length of mine, and he’s walking like he’s trying to set a land speed record. I practically have to jog to keep up.
“The compound is bigger than I expected,” I say, trying for conversation.
Grunt.
“Chief mentioned you’ve expanded over the years.”
Another grunt.
“How many children live here now?”
“Three, sometimes four, with more on the way.”
“That must make for a lively household.”
He stops so abruptly I nearly crash into his back. I catch myself just in time, stumbling slightly. Whew. That would have been embarrassing.
He turns and looks down at me. And I meandown. I consider myself average height for a human woman, but next to him I feel tiny.
“What exactly are you here to investigate, Ms. Vieira?” His voice is ice. “Our parents’ murder, or our family?”
I meet his glare.
You’re not the scariest interview I’ve ever had, buddy. Not even top five.
“Both. But I also want to help you investigate the unexplained murder of your parents,” I say evenly. “But context matters. Understanding your family helps me understand the case.”
“You don’t need to understand my family.” His voice could freeze plasma. “You need to ask your questions, get your answers, and leave.”
“I’m just trying to?—”
“I know what journalists do. They did it before. After my parents died, reporters crawled all over Timbur, asking questions, pretending to care about truth.” His jaw is tight. The ridges on his forehead are furrowed deep. “And then they wrote whatever made the best story. Turned our family’s worst nightmare into entertainment for strangers.”
“I’m not those journalists. I am a professional and I take my ethical obligations seriously.”
“They all say that.” He turns and keeps walking.
I follow in silence.
We reach a door at the end of a hallway, and he pushes it open without ceremony. The room is small but clean. A bed that looks surprisingly comfortable. A small desk. Basic amenities. Clearly a converted storage space, but someone made an effort, giving me a stack of fresh bedding, a small plant in a container, a clean towel folded on the desk. Better than I expected, honestly.
Trunk stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his massive chest and lists the rules.
“Meals are at set times in the common area. Don’t be late or you don’t eat.”
I nod.
“You don’t enter the mines without escort. That escort is me.”
Another nod.
“You don’t interview family members without me present. And you are not allowed to record us with any audio or visual equipment. You can take notes of what is said, that is all.”
“That seems?—”
“You don’t access family archives without permission.” He barrels right over my objection. “You don’t wander the compound alone at night. You don’t?—”
