“How nice,” she said now. “Tell him we say hello.”

“Good Lord,” said Dad. “When are we going to address the elephant in the room?”

I hadn’t wanted to bring it up until I’d gotten my bearings and inhaled some calories to fuel my brain, but my parents’ plates were already empty. It was time. I gave my mother a sidelong glance. Slowly, she rose to retrieve something from the countertop. The latest edition of the St. Albans Messenger.

“Front page,” she said, her expression grim. “Sounds like the police are getting nowhere fast.” By which she meant We’re in this for the long haul, whether we like it or not. She was eyeing the Messenger as if it might attack, so I pushed the rest of my dinner aside and spread the newspaper on the table. There it was, a smiling picture of Brett under a blaring headline.

REMAINS OF LOCAL MAN FOUND IN MISSISQUOI REFUGE, POLICE CALL DEATH SUSPICIOUS

There was some new information, too. I felt a deeper kind of hunger as I pored over the inky words.

According to the article, which was leaner than I would have liked, the Vermont State Police had received an anonymous call from a man who pointed them to the woods off VT-78, known in town as River Street. The body was found in the heart of the wildlife refuge. Thanks to the discovery of personal belongings at the scene, the local authorities managed to identify the victim in a matter of days. As for the cause of death, they must have had indisputable evidence related to how Brett Skilton was killed, because they had no qualms about calling his death a homicide. Anyone with information pertaining to the body, or about the case in general, was being directed to a police hotline. I didn’t look up until I’d read the story twice, paying particular attention to the location of the crime scene.

“God,” I said at last. “This is so surreal.”

“It’s terrible,” said Mom. “But out of all the people I’ve ever known, I can’t say I’m surprised this happened to Brett. He was always trouble. I told Felicia that from the get-go. Didn’t I tell her, Wally?”

“It was thirty-some years ago,” Dad said with a shrug. “But that does sound like something you’d say.”

“My sister didn’t need a man-child,” Mom went on. “What she needed was help, and she got none of that from him. Instead, he left her with two kids she couldn’t raise alone in her condition. She should never have married him. I shouldn’t have let her.”

The look my father and I exchanged was furtive and lightning quick. Mom’s attitude about Brett’s demise wasn’t particularly strange. Family members who suffer a loss to homicide often experience misplaced anger, some even going so far as to blame the victim for the crime. It’s hard when someone abandons you, regardless of who’s at fault.

But her response to Brett’s homicide felt different. Based on the loaded look in Dad’s eyes, my mother was experiencing a classic case of self-reproach. Brett’s death was a reminder of her sister’s failed union. A marriage for which Mom appeared to feel responsible.