Center Console
Coins
Thumb drive
Flashlight
I call Luke. “No word on the forensic tests yet,” I say. “But we got their witness list, exhibit list, and inventory of Trinity’s car. I’ll send it over to you. Do you want to stop by the house tonight? I could cook you dinner.”
“Thought you were grinding on that congressman’s case.”
True, but I need to keep an eye on my brother. He’s still talking about pleading guilty, taking the fall for those drugs—something I can’t let him do. The weight of this presses down harder each day, watching Luke’s life break into pieces.
“I’ll bring work home,” I say. “We’ll eat and have a look at the state’s discovery, then I’ll get back to work.”
I rummage through the fridge like I’m racing a clock, pulling out whatever’s within reach—half a bag of frozen chicken, a tired head of lettuce, one tomato, a crumble of feta, and a block of frozen spinach I didn’t even know I owned. I find a block of parmesan and some pasta sauce. Chicken parm is one of Luke’s favorites, though this will be far from my finest version.
I nuke the chicken for a few minutes to partially dethaw it, then toss it into a pan. I set the spinach to steam, breaking it apart with a spoon until it stops looking like a green brick.
Earlier than expected, Luke comes in through the front door.
“I printed out the discovery,” I say. “It’s on the kitchen table. No surprises.”
“Okay. Something smells good.”
It’s the garlic I’m adding to the spinach. Getting Luke to eat vegetables is like rolling a pebble up a mountain. He takes a seat and leafs through the documents tendered by the state.
“Basic glove-compartment stuff,” he says. “A ‘thumb drive’? Meaning, one of those little sticks you put in a USB port?”
“Yeah, of course. You’ve never heard of a thumb drive? It holds documents, photos, whatever.”
“Okay. So…nothing much here. Did you talk to him? The prosecutor?”
I flip the chicken filets, preferring to focus on the stove. “I told you already, the forensic test results should come back soon.”
I stir the spinach, add a touch of olive oil, anything to avoid his stare.
“You know what I’m asking,” he says. “Did you talk to him about a guilty plea?”
I move over to the island and start chopping the tomato for the salad.
“Have you suddenly gone deaf?” he asks.
“No, but my ears have filters that prevent nonsensical questions from ever reaching my brain.” I put down the knife and turn to him. “You were set up, Luke. And if you could just wait until the forensics come back, we might know who did it. If we don’t already.”
