Part 1 (2/2)
”Y'know,” I said, ”You and your mom should insulate the ceilings.” I pointed toward the rafters. ”Wouldn't be too expensive. Build a fake ceiling, stuff a little fibergla.s.s padding up there. You're bleeding money. Heat rises-”
”Um, so you want to ask me questions about the crash?”
”Right.” I dropped my briefcase on a kitchen table littered with shopping flyers and red-letter final notices. I popped the top and pulled my file. ”What day was the accident?”
Brian motioned at the chart in my hands. ”Isn't it in your report?”
”Yes. It is. Just need to hear it from you.”
”Last Monday.” He squinted an eye. ”About . . . one thirty?”
”Your mom picked you up from school?”
He nodded.
”What cla.s.s?”
”Huh?”
”I'm a.s.suming school doesn't end at one o'clock.”
”Oh. Yeah. After lunch, so, um, trigonometry.”
”You good at that stuff?”
”What? Trig? Yeah. I guess.”
”I couldn't get past counting on my fingers.” I wiggled my digits for a punchline. He didn't laugh. ”Your mom picked you up from math cla.s.s to bring you to the doctor?”
”Mmm hmm.”
”What's wrong?”
”With what?”
”You said you were on your way to the doctor? Were you sick?”
”Oh, yeah. No. Just a checkup, I guess.”
”You guess?”
”There's only one in town,” Brian said.
”One what?”
”Doctor. Barth. Saint Thomas Court.”
”I know. I talked to him.”
In addition to Brian's mother Donna, I'd spoken with her coworkers at We Copy, visited the accident site and service garage that was handling repairs, and I'd conversed with the doctor's office. The boy was the last item on my checklist. I knew DeSouza wasn't going to be happy losing five grand, Blue Book value same as repairs, but that's why people have insurance.
”Then he told you I saw him?” Brian exhaled, a clumsy sound caught between nervous laugh and hiccup. ”Why are you even here, man? I don't know what you need me for. If you already talked to Dr. Barth-”
”I told you. Standard inquiry. Your mom hit a telephone pole?”
Brian nodded, jamming trembling hands in pockets. My bulls.h.i.+t meter began creeping toward red. Just a feeling I had. Something about the kid's agitation and skittishness. I now saw his lip looked a little puffy, swollen, as if it had smacked off a dash on impact. How fast had Mom been going?
I glanced down at the report, pretending to read, peering up, looking him in the eye long enough to make him uncomfortable. Give him time and enough rope . . .
Brian's breathing sped up.
I snapped the folder shut. What did I care if this kid was covering for Mom's lead foot? Not like I got paid extra for the personality profile. Judging by the dilapidated, sad state of the house, the Oliskys could use the money. Let them come out a few bucks ahead. Good for them. My day was done.
Turning to go, I saw the photographs on the mantel and immediately recognized the wrestling poses, the staged yearbook kind, singlets and ear guards, grappling tigers ready to pounce. Before the bottom fell out of his life, my brother Chris had been a wrestling superstar for the Ashton Redcoats. Atop the fireplace more action shots from actual meets closed around an unlit candle in the center. Like a shrine.
I stepped past Brian into the small room.
”Hey! You can't be in there.”
At the mantel, I picked up a gleaming gold trophy. Same heft as when my brother dominated the ranks, emotions ambus.h.i.+ng me.
I inspected one of the photographs. The wrestler in the picture had the same features and facial expressions as Brian. Not like a brother. I mean, identical. Still slender, but tougher, more sinewy, ferocious. And without the gla.s.ses.
I turned over my shoulder. With closed folder, I gestured between them, Brian and the boy in the photos. ”You wrestle?” He didn't strike me as the type.
He shook his head. ”That's my brother, Craig.”
I squinted to read the inscription on the wrestling trophy. Craig Olisky. First Place. New Hamps.h.i.+re Regionals.
I went down the line studying the fierce gaze in the snapshots. Cheering crowds, champions.h.i.+p ceremonies. Remarkable, the resemblance.
”You look like twins,” I said.
”We are. Were, I mean.”
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