Page 37 of Finding Our Reality

Ry was thinking about it too. I know he was. He stopped breathing.

When we passed the gas station and body shop, he spoke for the first time since he apologized. “Different name. Harlan’s son sold it about a year after he died. It’s had a couple of different owners since then.”

And now here we are, at the place where we first met.

“I’ll come around and help you,” he offers.

“I’m climbing down from a truck, not scaling down the side of the Grand Canyon. I don’t need help.” I step on his running board and hop down. My heel does catch on a divot on the uneven packed dirt driveway, twisting my ankle just a bit. Idon’t care if the damn thing were to break, I would keep my mouth glued shut. I rummage around in my work bag, grabbing my notebook and pen. Walking around to Ry’s side, I see him standing at the back driver-side door, pulling on a bullet-proof vest.

“Shit, Ry. You think he’ll react that badly to seeing you?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. I’m still furious he basically called me a whore. I shouldn’t be happy to see him smile, but for some reason, my heart still leaps out of my chest every single time Ryland Joseph Crutchfield smiles. It always has, and I guess it always will. It has to be my hormones. A nostalgic and biologic reaction.

“My body cam is on my vest. I record all of my interviews.”

I plant my free hand on my hip. “That would’ve been nice to know when I was trying to decode and reconcile your scribbled notes with the typed transcripts.”

He shrugs. “You didn’t ask.” He attaches the last strap in place, nodding at my notebook. “Besides, I have you to take notes now, don’t I?” He pushes past me, leading the way.

He pounds on the door and I quickly rub my scar, trying to gain the courage to see the monster again. Trash is completely taken aback when he opens the door and sees his own brother standing in front of him. He basically looks the same, just older. Tired and weary. I guess on the Richter scale of aging drug addicts, he’s doing fairly well.

“Well, if it isn’t my brother, the cop. Something tells me my PO won’t be coming by today, huh?”

Ry fiddles with his utility belt, lightly running his fingers across his weapon, badge, phone, and walkie. “He’s trusting me to give him a full report. Can we come in?”

“Do I have a choice?” Trash walks away, leaving his door wide open. He bends down, stubbing his cigarette out in the ash tray on the coffee table before turning around. When he does, heblinks several times before realizing that it’s me he’s staring at. “Holy shit, Ella Hill, is that you?” He chokes on a laugh before stumbling forward, pulling me against him in a hug.

Ry’s eyes immediately flare and he reaches out to grab his brother by the collar, ready to fling him across the room. I put my hand up, stopping him in his tracks. I don’t hug Trash back, but I don’t step out of his embrace either. The smell of cigarette smoke, bad breath, and dirty clothes assaults my nose. It takes all my strength not to gag. His body feels so fragile against mine. His bones feel light and airy, like those of a baby bird.

He meanders away, stumbling back to sit in his stained and dingy recliner. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I had to come to town to take care of some family business. I decided to stay for a little while. I’m doing some consultant work for the sheriff’s department.”

Trash looks over at Ry and bursts out laughing. “Damn, brother, must be your lucky day. Never thought you’d get over this one,” he flicks a thumb in my direction. “Now, here she is. The gods just keep shining on you, Crutch, don’t they?”

“Don’t start playing that woe-is-me card, Trash. We come from the exact same circumstances. You chose your path, and I chose mine.”

He flings a leg across the arm of his chair. “Speaking of thosecircumstanceswe come from, Dad called the other day from lockup, said you weren’t putting in a good word for him or Mom.”

“They don’t deserve a good word. They were caught using stolen credit cards. Again. We’re talking prison this time, not just county or city jail. There’s nothing I can do for them.”

Ry didn’t tell me his parents are currently sitting in a jail cell.

Trash swings his leg. “You mean nothing youwantto do for them.”

There’s no emotion on Ry’s face. “Semantics,” he says simply.

Trash snorts and folds his arms across his chest. He doesn’t say anything, but I think it’s just because he doesn’t know what the word semantics means.

Ry changes the topic. “We’ve come to ask some more questions about Carrie’s case. We’ve come across some new information. Okay if we talk?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I’m giving you the choice to do it here or at the station. Your call.”

Trash sweeps his arm in the direction of his couch. “I don’t feel like driving anywhere so you might as well have a seat.”

I glance at the couch. It’s a different one from the last time I was here, but it looks just as old. I’m definitely not interested in sitting on the nasty thing, but I don’t have much of a choice. Alienating the subject right off the bat by refusing hospitality is never a good start to an interview.

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