Floating Staircase(70)

I pulled my hand out from under his. “Nancy Stein saw him because she was walking her dog by the water. You can’t see the staircase from their house, either. The Steins both said so.”

“Christ, maybe the goddamn wind was blowing, or maybe the trees weren’t as thick—”

“That’s bullshit. Come on.”

“Then where’s the body, huh? If David Dentman killed the kid, you tell me where to find the body.”

The kitchen fell silent. All I could hear was the ticking of the wall clock behind my brother’s head. It sounded like industrial machinery.

“I want you to really listen to me good, Bro, all right?” Adam leaned farther over the table, closing the distance between us. To my horror, he looked close to tears. “This isn’t a book. This is real life. Whatever puzzle you’ve been trying to work out, well, I’m telling you, there ain’t nothing there.”

Angered and frustrated, I could only sit slouched in my chair, my arms folded protectively over my chest, one leg bouncing spasmodically on the floor. Once more I was that punk kid, pouting in the principal’s office.

Adam chewed on his lower lip. It was something he had always done in his youth when he found himself in a difficult spot. “I was putting off saying this to you,” he said eventually, “because I wasn’t sure how to say it. But I’m just gonna say it anyway. Because you’re not getting any better.”

“You make me sound like a heroin addict.”

“You’re acting like one.”

“Go to hell,” I said, kicking my chair back and rising.

“No,” he said calmly. “Sit down. You want to pull the tough-guy routine, fine, but do it after we’re done here. This is important.”

“I’m sick of you telling me what to do.”

Adam took a deliberate breath and said, “Sit down for Jodie’s sake, then.”

Fuming, I sat back down.

“Jodie’s upset. I’m talking really upset. She’s worried you’re falling into another depressive state, just like after Mom died—”

“Jodie’s got her nose in too many psychology textbooks,” I growled.

“—and just like how you were after Kyle’s death.”

“Jodie didn’t know me then.”

“But I did. I saw how it decimated you.”

There was a burning in my face. My eyes itched.

Adam sighed. “You’re making up something because you so desperately need to be the hero.”

Curling my toes in my boots, I turned away from him . . . and found myself staring at a framed photo of us from his wedding sitting on a shelf. I couldn’t wrench my gaze from it. It ridiculed me.

“You’re chasing this thing, hoping that if you fix it, you’ll absolve yourself of your guilt over Kyle.”

I felt my whole body flinch.

“You can’t undo what happened to our brother,”

Adam said flatly. “No matter how many imaginary murders you solve, no matter how many books you write about it, you’re still powerless to change what happened to him.” He paused. “And now you’re letting your marriage fall apart in order to fix your own mistakes of the past. You’re caught in a cycle here. Can’t you see that?”

I couldn’t answer.

“Travis?” he said, and his voice was impossibly distant now. He was talking from the moon.

I turned away from the picture, a noxious soup broiling in my stomach.

Adam stood, stacking the photos into a neat pile. Then he glanced at the wall clock, biting his lip again. “Go home. Think about what I’ve said. If any of it makes sense after you sober up, maybe you should give Jodie a call in the morning. All right?”

Numbly, I nodded. I stood and collected the photos from the table. As I followed Adam to the front door, my boots squelching muddy tracks in the hallway, I curled the photos into a tube. My palms were sweating.

“Go,” he said, opening the door. “Get some sleep.”

I stepped into the dark, my shadow stretching before me in the panel of soft rectangular light that spilled out from the open doorway, and hoofed down the icy driveway. The sound of Adam’s door closing echoed across the cul-de-sac.

I was shaking.

It was a mistake to move here. We should have stayed in North London. My relationship with Adam has always been better by telephone.

Crossing the cul-de-sac, I pulled my coat tighter about my body and strode with my head down against the biting wind. Off to my right, someone flashed a pair of headlights, temporarily paralyzing me in the middle of the street like a deer. I could make out the bracketed shape of an old two-tone pickup idling silently against the curb. I could smell the fetid exhaust pumping from the tailpipe as I approached the driver’s side of the vehicle.

The driver rolled the window down.

Sitting behind the wheel was David Dentman.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Get in the truck,” Dentman muttered offhandedly. The only light inside the cab was from the burning ember of a cigarette.

“What are you doing here?” There was an icy finger tracing the contours of my spine.

“Looking for you.” He leaned across the passenger seat and opened the passenger door. The interior dome light came on, sending inky pools of shadow running down his face.