Page 39 of I'll Be Waiting

“Which isn’t why he picked it,” I say. “Gin is trendy right now. God only knows why.”

Jin mock-glares at me. “Are you suggesting I’m a trend chaser? Maybe I’m a trendsetter.”

“You keep telling yourself that. Just tell me you brought normal snacks and not some fancy charcuterie board.…”

He plunks the board on the table, his look daring me to comment. I sigh. Deeply.

The board is delicious, of course. Even the gin is fine. Yes, it’s small-batch locally distilled blah-blah, but at least he puts it into cocktails instead of making us drink it straight. We have French 75s and Greyhounds, and by the time the doorbell rings, I’m chill, laughing with the others, completely forgetting who would be at the door.

It’ll be Mrs. Kilmer with dinner and tomorrow’s lunch. And, I hope, news of her son. I tell the others I’ll get it, and I’m out the door and about to shut it behind me—on account of the bugs—when Dr. Cirillo catches it and joins me on the porch.

I’m about to inquire after Brodie when Mrs. Kilmer says, “Why don’t I take this cooler into the kitchen? I can get everything set up.”

Didn’t we have this conversation yesterday?

“I’m sorry,” I say, hoping I do sound apologetic. “We’re still conducting our research, and we can’t have anyone inside.”

“My orders,” Cirillo says. “I am the lead researcher, and I must have a clean environment.”

“It’s… actually about my son,” she says, stumbling over the words. “He’s still missing, and I thought he might be here.”

Cirillo’s brows furrow. “We’d hardly be inviting him in when we just said we can’t have anyone on the premises.”

“Not that you’ve invited him in,” she says quickly. “Just that maybe… he came in.”

“Into the house?” I say.

“The doors have been locked.” Cirillo eyes her. “I’m finding this odd, Mrs. Kilmer, so I’m going to be blunt and ask for answers. Your son has been missing since last night, and you think he broke into this house?”

“He isn’t missing. He’s a grown man who can come and go as he pleases. I don’t think he broke in. He does yard work here. He might have forgotten a tool and came to fetch it.”

“Why would his tool be in the house?” Cirillo says. “And why would he enter when there are clearly guests? This is making no sense, Mrs. Kilmer.”

“Some of the tools are in the basement. He could have slipped in to retrieve them and didn’t want to bother anyone. If I can just check the basement…”

Cirillo stares at her. “You think he’s in the basement? Right now?”

“He might have fallen down the steps.”

“The basement door is locked,” I say.

Cirillo says, “And it is still locked, as of an hour ago when I mistook it for the bathroom. Are you telling me that your son—as groundskeeper—has a key to the basement and also to the house?”

“Of course not.”

“Yet he keeps tools in the locked basement and might have entered—through the locked front door without a key—to retrieve them?”

She straightens, her tone chilling. “I only wanted to check. My son hasn’t come home, and I am concerned.”

“How would letting you into the house help? Doyouhave a key to the basement?”

“No, but—”

“Do you think we’re lying about it being locked? Fine. I will escort you in to check the basement door. That is a violation of research procedures, but I do not want you thinking we might have…” Cirillo throws up his hands. “Found the door open and locked it with your son down there?”

“Someone could have closed it behind him,” she says. “They saw it ajar and pulled it shut, and now he’s trapped down there.”

“Unable to call for help?”

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