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“So, what’s going on?” she asks.
I tell her, too, about Harley Granger, and her expression goes dark as I speak.
“What the fuck is wrong with people?” she asks. “Why are they always picking through the bones?”
The bones. The phrase sends a chill through me. Yes, Steph, probably Ainsley and Sam, too, just bones now.
Harley Granger was asked during an interview how he chooses the cold cases he wants to explore.Some stories have an ending that’s waiting to be retold. There’s an energy. Justice wasn’t done. Or answers are just out of reach. Those kinds of stories have a vibration I can feel. I don’t choose them. They choose me.
“Well, if he comes here,I’lltalk to him,” she says, putting hands on slender hips.
“Noneof us should talk to him,” says Badger. His voice has an uncharacteristic edge to it,
and Bekka and I both turn our gaze to him. “Let him do his podcast, or whatever the fuck it is, withoutourvoices.”
Bekka and I exchange a look, then nod almost in unison, but something angry flashes across her face when she looks back at Badger.
We stand in silence a moment, until it’s broken by the sound of Chet’s truck pulling up.
“Dinner’s in five,” Bekka says, and stalks off, graceful as a cat. She passes Chet’s truck without so much as a glance in his direction.
“Don’ttalk to him,” Badger says again after she’s gone.
The kitchen door slams, echoing in the quiet. When I look back at Badger, he’s already disappeared under the Corvette.
Chet saunters in. Bigger than Badger, dark where Badger is fair, smiling and lighthearted where Badger is contemplative and brooding.
I turn to greet him, and he pulls me into a big bear hug. Some of my tension releases. Badger and I have been taking care of Chet since we were all kids together. The eternal little brother who always tagged along, drove Badger crazy. But I never minded.
“Hey, I meant to make it to the store today,” he says, releasing me. “Sorry. I’ll get those loose shelves tomorrow. I got hung up.”
Chet is the area handyman, taking care of everything from plumbing to electric to carpentry, to gutter cleaning, lawn mowing, driveway shoveling, all manner of odd jobs. Everyone calls him. But he’s a bit of a stoner. May show up when he says, may not. Eventually he’ll get the job done. He’s talented with his hands; the work, when he gets to it, is always good.
“How’s the Sheriff?” he asks, brow wrinkling with concern. He smells faintly of marijuana.
“He’s getting there,” I say. “A little better every day.”
Chet was at the house cleaning out our gutters when my dad had his stroke six months ago. If Chet hadn’t been there, and noticed that my dad was acting strangely, my dad might be in even worse shape than he is now. It would have been hours before I came home from the store.
“I’ll stop by and see him,” he says, pulling off his wool beanie, rubbing a calloused hand over his head. He shifts off his leather jacket. He’s muscular with a girlishly pretty face, thick lashes, full mouth, stubble. He’s a bit of a local heartthrob, but no one’s been able to pin him down.
“He’d like that.”
“See you Christmas Eve?” he asks as I head back to my car.
“Of course,” I say. He drops my gaze, gives a sad nod.
“You were supposed to be here four hours ago,” says Badger, rolling out from under the car again.
“Sorry. I got hung up,” says Chet sounding like his twelve-year-old self.
“You mean you were somewhere getting high.” Badger’s voice carries out after me. “When are you going to grow up, Chet? I have to be able to count on you here.”
“I know, bro. I’m sorry.”
I leave them to their brotherly squabble. I have my own family issues to deal with.
I see Badger pointing an angry finger at Chet, Chet bowing his head, as I pull back. Badger’s always been too hard on Chet. On everyone.
