Summer Sons(73)
Andrew said, almost to himself, “There’s got to be something to find if we look hard enough.”
Riley crossed his arms over his stomach and shook his head. “None of this makes sense, man. Feels like it can’t be real.”
“What do you mean?”
Riley ran a hand through his dye-crisped hair. It stuck straight up and he smoothed it flat habitually a second later. He shoved the tote with his sneaker-tip. “What the fuck in any of this could possibly have been worth killing him for?”
The door slamming open a fraction of an inch from Riley’s elbow startled them both. Sam paused on the threshold, looking them over. His buzz cut was growing in. Riley handed Andrew the Post-It note list, scooped up the research, and headed for the stairs without a word to either of them, but it felt natural; a granted pardon, rather than a dismissal.
Sam said, “Gimme that list. We’re going driving.”
Andrew handed it over. Sam scanned the Post-It while Andrew checked his phone; West had responded, Tonight? He typed a quick maybe tomorrow. Andrew followed Sam out of the house. Sam glanced back once, grinned to see him there, and started to whistle as he crossed the street to his car. The sound was tuneless, flat, carrying an aggressively jaunty rhythm. In sync, doors shut on either side, sealing them in the already-hot interior of the WRX.
“Half of those are people I’ve got on string, but the other half I don’t recognize, so those are on you to figure out,” Sam said. The engine turned over with a comforting growl. “You eaten today?”
“No,” Andrew said.
He’d had a bagel from the campus coffee shop the previous afternoon, and before that a carton of fried rice he ate standing outside a restaurant. Food hadn’t been much of a consideration since Columbus. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass. The first thing Sam did was pull up to a Panera and say, “Stay put.”
“Nothing sweet,” he requested and Sam flapped an acknowledging hand behind him as he got out of the car.
He left it running for Andrew, air-conditioning valiantly fighting the heat, and returned a few minutes later with two sandwiches and two iced Americanos. Andrew unwrapped his sandwich. By the time Andrew took his second bite, Sam had crammed his down in six disturbingly fast bites, effortless and neat, then sucked down a third of his coffee in two long pulls. The sandwich, as with most things Andrew had tried to eat since the funeral, tasted like air and dust. But it was food.
“So, Riley texted me in a fucking panic when he couldn’t get in touch with you,” Sam said. “Something about your girlfriend or ex-girlfriend or whatever showing up at the house?”
“Yeah, that did happen.” Andrew popped his knuckles against the door panel in an irritated snap. Of course he’d told Sam about it. Andrew wasn’t sure why he hadn’t expected to be confronted with the situation immediately.
“Okay, so it didn’t go well,” Sam prompted.
“Ex-girlfriend, and no, it did not.”
The interstate opened up around them as he continued eating the sandwich Sam had gotten for him. It was easier to swallow when someone else provided for him.
“It’s sorted out now?” Sam asked.
“Sorted,” he confirmed. “It was old business about us and Eddie, and it’s done for good, now.”
Sam gave a quiet, satisfied hum of understanding. Andrew wondered if West had texted him again already, mind bouncing from one uncomfortable topic to the next. The ring of ink on his wrist kept catching his eye almost as if it were fresh, a scribbled signature that crossed time and space to remind him of his place, one half of a whole. He saw it how Del saw it, for a moment: a claim, not a bond. While Andrew sat deep in thought, Sam braced the wheel with his knee and snagged his snapback from behind the seats. He pulled it on and thumbed the brim up to the perfect spot, framing his face with afternoon-sun shadow.
“We’re going to go out to the Masterson place,” Sam said over the crumpling of Andrew’s empty sandwich wrapper. “Beck is a decent dude, I’m sure he’s got nothing to do with whatever happened, but he said he’d chat.”
Andrew had six names, and Beck Masterson was one of them. Sam wasn’t going to make him beg for help. Andrew threw the wrapper out the window and drank the first bracing, bitter mouthful of coffee while they drove in silence.
* * *
Beck Masterson was a nice enough man a bare few years older than Eddie himself, willing to express his condolences and share a bowl from the weed he bought off of Sam. He had precisely one spooky story to tell while reminiscing about the questions “Sam’s friend” had asked, but the story he shared was run-of-the-mill, a great-grandfather’s ghost out back making moonshine from beyond the grave. He even said it like that, from beyond the grave. Andrew hadn’t sensed more death from the property than usual, though—no great-grandpa lurking as far as he could tell.
Sam dropped him off at the house no more informed than he’d been when they started, but far more exhausted. He’d learned nothing useful about Eddie, though he supposed expecting answers on the first attempt was a reach. Sam left him with a promise to call the other two names he knew to set up meetings; in the meantime, he needed to tackle his own share. Without Eddie’s phone or his records, though, that was a challenge in and of itself.
On the back porch steps, the plastic bag with his ruined jeans sat sweltering and stinking. He held his breath long enough to gingerly remove the paper packet from the pocket, then kicked the bag into the corner to throw in the garbage later. He collapsed into the desk chair with an overstimulated groan and dumped the ring out of the packet.