True Places(74)

“Is Reid back?” Suzanne had changed into dark jeans and a white button-down shirt and had pulled her hair into a ponytail. This, he recognized, was her armor. If she looked tidy and put-together, she might feel that way.

“He’s in the kitchen with Brynn.”

She marched by him. He had no choice but to follow.

Brynn was slumped at the breakfast table with a glass of water and a plain bagel. Her skin was the color of marble and her eyes were closed. Reid was eating Raisin Bran at the counter. They looked like strangers at a late-night diner in a bad neighborhood.

Suzanne approached Brynn. “We have a lot to talk about. Did you take the Advil?” Brynn nodded, almost imperceptibly. Suzanne walked around the counter to face Reid. “You all right?”

He spooned cereal into his mouth and didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

“Good. I’m glad.” Suzanne ran water over a sponge and wiped the counter, the crease over her left eye deepening. “Brynn got into some trouble last night.”

Reid nodded. Whit wasn’t certain what the nod meant, but the lack of a verbal response was irritating.

“And Iris,” Suzanne said.

Reid looked up, his spoon suspended in the air. “Is she okay?”

“I think so.”

He nodded again and went back to eating.

Something about the boy’s posture, his attitude, sent a creeping sensation across Whit’s neck. He ran a hand through his hair and busied himself getting a glass of orange juice from the fridge, trying to dispel the feeling that he was missing something.

Suzanne rinsed out the coffeepot and the sink, wiped the counter again.

Whit said to her, “Maybe you and I should conference about this first, huh?”

“Maybe.” She seemed to be considering it, then abruptly turned to Brynn. “Who’s Robby?”

“Huh?” Brynn’s voice was gravelly.

“Who’s Robby?”

“Can we talk about this later? My head hurts.”

Reid peered over his shoulder at his sister. She studied her bagel.

“Robby who?” Whit offered it cautiously. The room seemed filled with water, sloshing one way, then the other. He felt seasick or like he was the one with a hangover.

Suzanne said, “Last night Brynn texted someone named Robby.”

Reid laid both forearms on the counter and addressed Whit. “Come on, Dad. You know. Robby.” He drew out the name. “Robby. Commonly short for Robert.”

Whit placed the carton of orange juice in the door of the fridge. He did it slowly, not eager to turn around. Robby. Robert. Suzanne would be standing behind him, looking worried and exhausted and, now, puzzled. Reid would be smirking. Whit exchanged the position of the orange juice and the milk, then shut the door and took a sip of juice as casually as he could.

“You remember, Dad. At the club. I told you I met Robby. Son of Robert.” He snapped the t sound. Whit couldn’t figure out why the sound bugged him so much, but it did.

“I remember you mentioning him.”

“Do you remember me mentioning a photo he showed me? Do you remember who I said it was?”

“Well, sure.” Right away, Whit regretted the admission.

Suzanne tilted her head and eyed him, like a robin examining a worm it was about to spear. “What’s this?”

Brynn let out a huge sigh. “Can we not do this now? My head?”

Reid spoke to his mother. “This is something Dad didn’t want me to bother you with. At the club, at that fund-raiser, Robby Shipstead—I think we all know who we’re talking about now—showed me a photo on his phone. It was a girl, blonde hair, mostly undressed. Her face wasn’t in the picture.”

“Right.” Whit organized his thoughts. Reid was saying this all wrong, confusing everything. “Suzanne, Reid recognized a pillow. Part of a pillow.” He waited for her to say it was ridiculous.

She was stone faced. “A pillow.”

“Yes. I should’ve said he thought he recognized part of a pillow.”

Reid said, “With a red horse on it exactly like the one in your old room.”

“There must be a million—” Whit began.

“A million, Dad? Seriously?”

Suzanne’s eyes were trained on her son. “With a white background? A red horse with designs on it?”

Reid nodded.

“Wait.” Brynn straightened a little, holding on to the edge of the table. “Let me get this straight. Robby showed you a photo of me?”

The color drained from Suzanne’s face. Whit moved toward her, but the look she gave him stopped him dead.

Reid twisted toward his sister. “Your buddy Robby didn’t know who I was, obviously. He probably showed it to everyone.”

“Shut up. Just shut up.” Brynn slumped in her chair, her tangled hair covering most of her face.

Whit detached himself from his wife’s glare and took a step toward Brynn. “I can’t believe you would send someone a photo like that.”

Reid said, “Why not, Dad? Why can’t you believe it? I told you, after all. And you said you’d talk to her.”

Suzanne’s voice was low and calm. “And did you, Whit?”

He looked around at his son and his wife, their faces angry, disappointed, accusing. He avoided Brynn, whose sickly pallor was its own commentary. “Before she left for prom, I told her to be careful, so, yes, I did talk to her.” Suzanne’s expression hardened. “I didn’t talk about the photo, about the part of the pillow, okay? Because it was absurd! It was too damn absurd!”