Page 13 of The Night We Lost Him

“It’s ten a.m.”

“Which makes it early for a lecture,” he says. “Besides, if it’s all the same, I could use some latitude. I’m going through a breakup.”

I look at him, surprised. “You and Morgan broke up? Since yesterday?”

“Who said I was talking about Morgan?”

Sam downs the rest of the glass as I look at him in disbelief. I seriously consider whether it is still possible to get off this plane.

“You know,” Sam says, “I can feel your judgment.”

“I’m not trying to hide it.”

This is when the captain comes over the loudspeaker and announces the snow is coming down a bit harder. And I think I’m about to have a get-out-of-jail-free card. That the next thing the captain is going to say is that we are grounded because of the weather. But, no, he says while we may hit a few bumps, we’ll be on our way soon. Boarding completed. The plane door closed and locked.

I sit back, take a deep breath in.

“Anyway,” Sam says. “It’s not what you think.”

“I think that it’s none of my business.”

“So maybe it is what you think.”

“Let’s just stick to talking about Dad, okay?”

“Fine by me.”

I stare down at the Windbreak information that I have analyzed and tabulated, the property map and the design plans ready to be further dissected.

“There are a bunch of things we should get clear on before we talk to the police,” I say. “I also have some questions about the perimeter. And we should loop in Tommy too, don’t you think?”

“Why?”

“It affects him, for starters. And maybe he’ll have some insight.”

“No. He won’t.”

He shakes his head, shutting it down.

“You know that’s the second time you’ve responded like that when I’ve brought up Tommy,” I say. “What is going on with you two?”

“Nothing worth getting into.”

He puts his arm over his forehead, wipes at the sweat there. And I notice that he’s wearing a brace on his wrist, a thick black brace. On that wrist. The one that he broke, the one that ended his baseball career.

He shrugs. “It always acts up in the cold. Alcohol will help.”

“I don’t think that’s how alcohol works.”

He keeps his arm on his face, lowering it over his eyes, a makeshift sleep mask. “Can we pause on the chitchat? I’m just not in a great place at the moment.”

“You’re aware that you’re the one that wanted to be doing this?”

“I am,” he says.

“You sure about that?”

“I will rally.”

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