The FBI had taken over the case. Federal prosecutors were building their file. Forensic accountants were tracing every dollar Patty had touched.
The machine I had once been part of was grinding forward, methodical and relentless.
But this time, I was not running it.
I was just a witness, waiting to see if justice would work the way it was supposed to.
Tim did not call.
I told myself I expected that.
I was lying.
My neighbor, Dorothy Brown, knocked on my door that Saturday morning with a casserole I did not need and concern I probably did.
Dot had been a nurse for forty years before retiring, which meant she could read vital signs even when people thought they were hiding them.
“You look terrible,” she said, pushing past me into my kitchen.
“Good morning to you too, Dot.”
“Don’t sass me, Charlie Davis.”
She set the casserole on my counter.
“The whole neighborhood is talking. Margaret saw the FBI at your son’s house. Said there were evidence boxes.”
“Small towns and wealthy suburbs,” I said. “Same gossip. Different property values.”
“It’s complicated,” she said.
“I said that.”
“No, you tried to say it like it was an ending. It’s usually the beginning.”
She poured herself coffee without asking and settled into my breakfast nook like she owned it.
“You want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then I’ll talk, and you’ll listen.”
She took a sip of my coffee, then grimaced.
“You still buy the cheap stuff.”
“I live on a pension.”
“You live like a man punishing himself for outliving his wife.”
That shut me up.
Dot softened slightly.
“I’ve known Tim since he was eight years old, playing in your backyard after your wife passed. Sweet boy. Smart. Then he married Patty, and I watched him change. Little things at first. Less time for friends. Expensive car he couldn’t afford. That smile that never quite reached his eyes anymore.”
I sat down across from her.
Outside, December snow had started falling soft and quiet.
“Sometimes people become who they marry,” Dorothy said.
“Sometimes they were always that person,” I replied, “just waiting for permission.”
“Which is he?”
I looked at the table.
“I don’t know anymore.”
“Yes, you do. You’re just afraid of the answer.”
The coffee tasted bitter.
Or maybe that was just my mood.
My phone buzzed.
A text from Leo.
Call me when you can. Developments.
I excused myself and stepped into my study before dialing.