The Unwilling(47)

“That blows. I’m sorry.”

“It’s life. Besides, it taught me the difference between things I can control and those I can’t. It’s why I brought you here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” The same cool wind streamed hair across her face, and she smiled at my confusion. “Kiss me, Gibby.”

“Really?”

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since sophomore year.”

“But you never said … I had no idea.”

“Well, now you do.” She stepped closer, so I kissed her, lightly at first, and then not so lightly. Her hands found my shoulders, and mine, the small of her back. She drew away, in time, but her eyes were bluer and deeper and smiling. “That was my first kiss,” she said. “My first kiss ever.”





17


At the police station, Jason was moved from holding cell to interview room, then back and forth again. It lasted all day, and most of the questions were about Tyra. He knew better than to talk about that, so he didn’t. Besides, the cops were assholes.

Smith.

Martinez.

Late in the day, they left him alone, so he stared at the mirrored glass, thinking of Tyra. She was dead, he felt certain, though the cops had been careful to share nothing but their questions. How did you meet? When did you see her last? Why the fight? What happened to Tyra’s gun? They had other questions, too, but Jason learned early how to tune them out.

Eventually, a man entered that Jason didn’t know. He wore a suit and a wedding ring. “My name is David Martin. I’m captain of the homicide division.” He sat, lacing his fingers on the table. “The recording devices are off. It’s just us.”

Jason gave the man a dead-eyed stare.

“You’ve not asked for a lawyer. As a gesture of respect to your father, I’m here to suggest, most strongly, that you do.” The captain leaned forward, his features plain but intent. “Silence is not a valid defense. You should have an attorney.”

“I hate attorneys.”

“Everyone does until they need one.”

Jason shifted in the seat, chains rattling where his hands were secured to an eyebolt in the table. “The last lawyer I had talked me into a plea I should have never taken.”

“Twenty-seven months for felony heroin, a good deal by any standard.”

“Only if I was distributing. I wasn’t.”

“Still…”

“Have you ever been to Lanesworth?” Jason asked. “You would not be so glib if you had.”

“Very well.” The captain rapped on the mirrored glass. “We’re recording now.”

“I have nothing to say about Tyra Norris.”

“So let’s talk about this.” The captain withdrew photographs of the van and its contents. “Ninety thousand in cash, and enough weapons to fight a small war.”

“I’ve had enough of war.”

“So has the city.”

Jason studied the cop’s face. He seemed decent enough, smart enough. “Is my father behind the glass?”

“He can’t help you, son.”

“What happened to Tyra?”

The captain leaned back, considering. “What would you like to know?”

“How she died and why you think I’m the one who killed her.”

The captain drummed his fingers, then shrugged. “Some days ago, you rented a room from Charles Spellman.”

“Yeah, 1019 Water Street. It’s no secret.”

“Your room is on the second floor on the northwest side.”

“It is.”

“And you’re still the registered tenant.”

“What’s your point?”

Captain Martin didn’t respond. Instead, he placed three evidence bags on the table, each holding a Polaroid photograph. He fanned them out, and Jason paled. He’d known more blood and death than most, but that was another life in a different world. “That’s Tyra?”

“It is.”

Jason struggled to imagine it, but the shape of her was right. The hair. The cloudy eye. “I would never hurt Tyra. Not like that.”

“And yet…” The captain laced his fingers on the table, leaning close. “When we searched the Water Street house this morning, we found those photographs in your room, beneath your pillow, in fact.”

“I did not kill Tyra Norris.”

“We found this as well.” The captain produced a fourth evidence bag. In it was a scalpel, mirror-sharp and stained blackish red. “That’s Tyra’s blood on the blade. So you see … Murder weapon. Photographs.” The cop leaned back this time, sad but certain. “If there are mitigating circumstances, something from the war, something you think I should know about…”

Jason reached for the photos, but the chain was too short.

“Nothing?” the cop asked.

“No.” Jason could barely speak. “Nothing.”

“I’m sorry, son.” The cop gathered up the evidence, and stood. “I’m sorry for Tyra Norris, for her family, and for yours. It’s a bad case, truly horrible. That being said, you’re still your father’s son. If you think of something you’d like to say, either to him or in mitigation, I will always be willing to listen.”