My tired body begs me to give in to Cody, to just believe him and shake off the horrible gut-wrenching feelings that seep from the marrow of my bones. Every time I close my eyes, though, I see the picture of the boy. The statements. The death certificate.

“I don’t think you believe me,” Cody says when I don’t answer him. The sizzle of the thick slice of ham he places in the frying pan brings me back to the present. It’s pitch black outside, but still the streetlights filter in through the curtains in Cody’s dining room.

With my arms crossed, I lean my hip against the counter and I have to clear my tight throat before telling him again, “It’s just that I feel like there’s more to it.” Shame washes over me. I should tell him I went through his things. I should confess that much and maybe he’d confess too.

“Because the cases haven’t been solved. Every case I’ve ever had that went cold … I’ve felt like that,” he says, speaking to the stove instead of me, flipping the ham and then scooping potatoes from the back pan onto the two simple white plates beside the stove.

Even with my sanity stretched far too thin, somewhere in the back of my exhausted mind I’m fully aware that I should be grateful for Cody and that, as far as I know, he doesn’t have any reason at all to lie to me. I can’t shake this feeling, though. My gut instinct is that he’s lying … it also whispers that I should keep what I know hidden from him just the same. One old case file I opened while I was snooping has shifted everything.

He continues, “Because there is more to it. To all of those cases we didn’t close. You and I both know that.” He adds under his breath, so low I almost don’t hear, “There’s more to all those cases.”

With a deep thump in my chest that ricochets a pain that can’t possibly compare to his, a flash of the photo I found comes to mind. The black and white photo of Cody and his brother standing with an older man, maybe their uncle since they resembled him closely. The image is followed with more thoughts of the case that was never fully closed. At least not for him.

The silverware clinks against the porcelain as he places a plate in front of me, not missing a beat of his explanation. “Of course you feel like there’s more. There is more; I just don’t know that we’ll ever know the truth.”

My gaze flies to his, but he isn’t looking at me. He’s focused on spearing the ham and eating, like I should do. Lord knows I’ve had more to drink than I needed tonight.

With every swallow, questions beg to be spoken.

I barely taste the meal, although the heavy scent of butter and pork makes me believe it should be delicious.