Sweet Water(36)

Martin confirms that we heard about a girl on the news and already pieced together that it is likely Yazmin, because Finn said they were near the park last night and her mother texted us looking for her.

Maybe telling the cop this is a mistake, but in any case, Detective Monroe doesn’t seem happy that we already heard the news.

“Small town, news travels fast,” Martin explains.

“I’d like to speak to your son. May I come in?” he asks, but it’s not really a question.

Martin looks hesitant but opens the door wider. As it creaks open, so does my heart, and I’m suddenly aware of every sound around me: the sharp squeak of the brass hinges that need oiling, the thud of the detective’s heavy boots on my cherry-wood floors, my own breathing.

We can’t shield Finn any longer. He has to face the detective on his own.

Monroe positions himself at the breakfast bar where Finn is sitting.

“Finn, honey . . . ,” I say.

His eyes travel slowly between Detective Monroe and me. “Oh no.” He places his head in his hands. “He’s here because of Yazmin,” Finn says, his voice unsteady, almost theatrical. Finn manages fresh tears, and if this is part of an act, he sure is good at it.

I place my hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Finn. She’s dead.”

Finn lets out a heated puff of air and cradles his head further, crying harder. I’m disturbed by how genuine his hurt appears. Maybe the drugs stilted his emotions earlier and he’s finally able to feel the pain.

Or he’s really good at pretending, which reminds me of Martin. Strangely, I can’t see Spencer doing the same thing. Finn seems more like Martin that way—his presentation more serious and structured. We were always trying to temper Spencer’s flame, whereas Finn’s could always use a little more ignition. Martin and Finn also excel at the same subjects. Although Spencer went full science, he hated math, and that was Martin’s and Finn’s favorite subject. It makes sense, I guess, all things considered. This is just the first time their similarities frighten me.

“I knew I shouldn’t have left her,” he says, a little cry in his voice that reminds me of the boy who wouldn’t jump in the pool.

He’s a ladder climber, not a killer.

“Yes, I’m very sorry about your girlfriend,” Detective Monroe says, but his voice lacks empathy. It sounds more obligatory than anything. “You can just call me Monroe, by the way.”

Finn takes a large breath. “Okay.”

“I need some information to try to piece together what happened, Finn. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” he manages through tears.

“Why did you go for a walk in the woods last night?” Monroe deadpans, and Martin opens his mouth to say something, but Finn speaks first.

“It was Yazmin’s idea. She liked to walk there.”

“To do drugs?” Monroe asks.

“Yes. The drugs were hers. They were Yaz’s.” He whispers the last part, as if saying her name hurts.

Monroe nods. I notice he’s come alone. “Are you the only one investigating this?” I ask, but really, I’m just trying to give Finn a break to catch his breath after the last question. I need a moment to catch mine too. I’m not cut out for this. My palms are perspiring, and I can’t keep my eyes from billowing with tears. I’m afraid I’ll let loose.

“There’s only one homicide detective assigned to my division because this type of incident is rare in these parts. In fact, I haven’t investigated an unsolved death of a minor in Sewickley in the thirty years I’ve worked it, due to retire in a few months.” He says the fact with such disdain, I gather Yazmin’s case could be the one to leave a black mark on his near-perfect career.

“Where did you do the drugs?” Monroe taps his pen on a tattered notepad. He’s wearing plain clothes, which doesn’t make things feel casual, only worse, like some guy in the back room of a bar browbeating my son.

“In the park. That’s where she liked to smoke, but she was scared to go alone. Her brother used to walk with her, but he’d pressured her to quit. Afraid she’d mess up her scholarship.”

Monroe looks down at his notepad. “Her brother, Cash?”

Finn’s shoulders hike at the name. “Yes. He doesn’t like me too much.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t want to know what I did to scare the shit out of the guys who dated my sisters.” Monroe finally shoots us a gap-filled smile, the memory of torturing his sisters’ beaus a complete joy.

“He was very protective.” Finn nods. “I’m sure he’s upset.” Finn’s breath hitches. I lightly touch his shoulder again.

“I’m sure,” Monroe says. Finn holds his coffee, bleary-eyed but steady. He’s only started drinking coffee over the summer. I should’ve put hot cocoa in front of him instead, something more juvenile.

“I need to know more specifics, especially since there are drugs involved, and I need your help, Finn.”

The echo of the words—“drugs involved”—fills our spacious kitchen. They bounce off the lime-green subway tiles and soak into the whitewashed cabinets, all I can feel or taste. The law will use that phrase to crucify Finn later if this thing goes south, I just know it.

“She said it was just a little pot. I don’t smoke pot, but I did last night.” Finn makes eye contact with the cop. Good. He probably doesn’t realize his body gesture is a sign of truth-telling. Martin couldn’t have had time to coach him on that trick yet. My eyes cross at the thought, and I blink them back into reality.