She looked at him with wide eyes and an accusatory look, as if not knowing Bryson was a crime.

“Jerry Fucking Bryson, that’s who,” she said. “Your father worked with him for a few years before Bryson left to start some shithole company decades ago. What did he call it?” She looked around, as if the answer were painted on one of the walls. Then she snapped her head back to Colin. “Craytronics. Yes, that was it. He thought he was so smart. Smart enough to convince your father to invest ten thousand dollars. Bryson promised we’d be millionaires within a decade.”

Colin had never heard this story before, but it didn’t take a detective to see where it was headed.

“Wasn’t even five years before that goddamn company was out of business and our money gone with it. Fucking Bryson didn’t even apologize to us. Said we knew what we were getting into.”

“That’s terrible,” Colin said.

“It’s a crime,” she replied.

“How many drinks have you had?”

“Not enough.”

He sighed, expecting that answer.

“Pour me one more, will you, sweetie?” Her voice was suddenly sweet and light. Her daytime voice. “That’ll calm these nerves, I’m certain.”

“What you need is medication,” Colin said.

“I’m not a junkie,” she snapped, falling back into the anger she had unleashed for the memory of Bryson. She steadied herself, took a breath, and said, “Just one more. Sit with me for one more. Then I’ll go to bed.”

Colin wrestled with his conscience one more time, and once again, he did as he was asked. He would pour her a drink, just as he’d surely give her morphine were she dying of cancer.

“One more,” he said. “Where’s your glass?”

“Kitchen counter.”

Colin burrowed his way to the kitchen, found the glass, and grabbed the gin from the counter. Then he grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator, one of a twelve-pack he’d brought for himself last week. She didn’t touch his booze, and he didn’t touch hers.

They sat in the alcove, in the chairs where his parents sat together thousands of times, sipping their drinks in silence. Over a period of several minutes, Jackie settled her bones deeper into the well-worn fabric chair, slipping into what appeared a numbness, a memory, and a fog all rolled together. Her gaze fixed on the far wall, and a hint of a lazy smile grew on her lips.

Finally, she said, “Tell me about your day, Thomas.”

His father’s name rang odd to his ears, but not as much as it used to. She’d referred to Colin by her dead husband’s name a half-dozen times by now.

Unsure at first how to respond, Colin choose to simply answer her question.

“I’m investigating this woman. Rose Yates. She’s the reason I had to leave town a couple of weeks ago, remember?”

His mother continued to stare straight ahead but shook her head. “No, I don’t remember you traveling for work.”

He’d spoken in bits and pieces about Rose Yates to his mother, but she always had trouble recalling things at night. Were they having this conversation in the morning, Colin was sure she’d know exactly who he was talking about.