“How are your folks doing?” she asked as we hugged again. This time I noticed the firm, shallow bump under her shirt.

“As well as you’d expect, considering the whole town is talking about my family. Any theories?”

“You’re the detective.” A microscopic wrinkle appeared between her eyes. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“What, to investigate?” Again I laughed. “Hell no. I just came to support my parents.” I zipped up my coat, and we stepped into the wind. “According to local law enforcement, it’s been almost twenty years since Brett died. We just didn’t know about it until now. The case is stone-cold. I’m lucky I’m not the one responsible for warming it up.”

“It’s so crazy. I didn’t know him well, obviously, but he was really nice to me.” She lowered her eyes for a moment. “He was like an extra in my life, hanging out in the background. Remember that family picnic you invited me to? Brett showing up half in the bag? Felicia was livid.”

Gobs of spilled potato salad embedded in the grass. Spittle on Felicia’s chin. “There were a lot of days like that,” I said. That event had been one of the tame ones. Brett made an appearance in the police blotter on more than one occasion for motor vehicle crashes, disturbing the peace, you name it.

“Poor Wally was so embarrassed, he kept apologizing when he drove me home,” Suze said. “But the truth was that afternoon, before Felicia lost it, Brett spent ages listening to me complain about having a teacher for a father. My dad and I were in a bad place then—he was always harping on me to be an angel at school and make a good impression on his coworkers—and Brett was really understanding.” With a shudder, she said, “You think whoever killed him is still around?”

“They could be, but I don’t think you need to worry. The police are all over it.”

“Think they’ll find him, though? After all this time?”

I thought of Crissy, spitting mad in her trailer. My parents choosing to do their errands in a different town. “For everyone’s sake, I damn well hope so.”

NINE

Training to become an investigator is just like studying for anything else: facts and procedures are drilled into your head with such force that you’re not likely to ever forget them. Eventually, putting them into practice becomes a matter of instinct. I suppose that’s why, when I parted ways with Suze, I found myself puzzling over Brett’s death.

No word of a lie, I wanted nothing to do with his case. I had no reason to believe the local authorities weren’t perfectly capable of solving it. What I did have was a personal stake in seeing Brett’s killer apprehended. Everything about his death made me uneasy. One thing I learned during my training is that about forty percent of homicide victims are killed by someone they know, and twelve percent of those are killed by family. With a crime like the one committed against my uncle, the involvement of a stranger was unlikely. Intimates are who we look at first. And most of the people close to Brett were members of my own family.