“Once, twice a year he’d pop up—Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays. He looked great, really happy and that reassured my parents. He was reviving the whole sixties thing—long hair, beard, hemp sandals. But always clean and well groomed, Dad said he looked like Hollywood’s idea of Jesus.”

“You mentioned handling your parents’ affairs, so I assume—”

“Gone, Lieutenant. Four years ago. They were vacationing near Mount Olympia, decided to explore and drove onto a dirt access road that passed through a heavy logging area. A load of huge pines came loose from a truck bed and crushed their car. We wanted to sue—Scott and I and Des—but the lawyers said our case was weak because the road was chained and warning signs were all around, Dad had lifted it and driven through, anyway. In the end we settled for a hundred thousand. The lawyers took forty percent and we split sixty with Des. He’d cleaned up his act and started architecture school, said it would help with tuition and living expenses. What made it horribly ironic is we’re from an old logging family, four generations. My grandfather was a master sawyer and Dad did some logging before he became a firefighter.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“It happened before Sam was born, that’s what hurts the most. Mom and Dad would’ve loved Sam.” Tears. “She adored Desi and now he’s gone.”

“How did Desi react to losing your parents?”

“Terribly,” said Ricki Flatt. “He got this empty look in his eyes, walked around for weeks as if he was in a trance. The walking wounded, Scott called it. I’ve never seen my brother like that, generally he’s open and mellow and accessible.”

“He drew into himself.”

“I remember thinking this isn’t healthy, he needs to deal with it, do some serious grieving or he’s going to break down. I was sure he’d drop out of school but he didn’t, he stuck with it and graduated with honors.”

Milo tapped his pen on a corner. “Ms. Flatt, that remark you made yesterday on the phone, about it being political. We’re still curious about that.”

Ricki Flatt’s eyes jumped all over the place. “Forget that, that was silly. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“But you did, ma’am.”

She untied her hair, shook it loose, fastened it tighter.

“Ricki, we have no interest except solving your brother’s murder.”

Thumping both elbows on the table, she pressed her palms to her cheeks. Her fingertips trailed above her ears, as if blocking out noise. See no, hear no.

Milo said, “The only thing we’ve heard remotely political about your brother is he was into green architecture, the whole environment thing.”

Ricki Flatt’s left cheek twitched.

Milo edged closer. “Did he get radical with that? Spend those ten years doing things that might be considered illegal?”

“I don’t know how he spent them.”