He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be naïve, Brooke. Tim’s mother isn’t looking for the truth. She’s just looking to get her son off the hook. You can’t let that happen.”

He’s right, of course. Mrs. Reese will do whatever it takes to get her son acquitted. But it’s going to take a lot more than convincing me.

Chapter 47

After the stressful day I have had, I can’t even contemplate cooking dinner. Instead, we order a pizza. There’s a cute moment when Shane and Josh discover they both love pepperoni on a pizza, and I swear, Shane looks like he’s going to tear up.

The conversation at dinner flows easily. I had forgotten how naturally charismatic Shane could be, and even though he’s trying a bit too hard, Josh doesn’t seem to notice. Josh has been a bit down ever since Tim was arrested, and this is one of the nicest dinners we’ve had since that night.

After Josh goes upstairs to finish his homework, Shane remains at the kitchen table, smiling to himself.

“What?” I say.

“He’s a nice kid,” he says.

“Yes. He is.”

“He seems smart too.” He cocks his head. “Good at sports?”

“Really good. You should see him hit a baseball.”

His eyes widen. “Could I?”

“Well, not now. But when the weather gets better. And Little League starts up in the spring. You can go to his games—I’m sure he’d love that.”

I’ve never seen anyone’s entire face light up at the prospect of attending a kids’ softball game, which are admittedly pretty boring. “Thank you, Brooke,” he says.

“For what?”

“For doing such a good job raising our son.”

I take a quick glance at the stairwell. “Careful what you say. The walls are thin around here.”

“Right. Sorry.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I appreciate you putting me up here, and I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

I blink at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh.” He lifts a shoulder. “I forgot to mention. I heard from my lawyer, and apparently, my mom left me the farmhouse in her will. So after I get that place cleaned up, I can live there. I figure I’ll head over tomorrow.”

The farmhouse. The place where it all happened. The massacre.

“How could you want to live there?” I say. “After everything that happened…”

His eyebrows inch upward. “That was my home for eighteen years, Brooke. And honestly, it’s not like I have a lot of options.”

“You can stay here as long as you want.”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“You won’t be.”

He looks down at the plate in front of him, stained with pizza grease. “I appreciate your generosity, but this is not my home. I need my own place. You get that, right?”