Page 53 of Little Buried Secrets

I exited Rae’s house and found Whitlock and Bronte sitting on the porch, side by side, laughing.

“I can’t believe you were a speed skater,” Bronte said. “And I can’t believe you almost went to the Olympics.”

“What can I say,” he said. “I’m a man of intrigue.”

“You might be the sickest old guy I know.”

“Is ‘sickest’ a good thing?”

“It’s like … cool. You’re cool.”

“Gee, thanks.” He turned, looking up at me. “How’s Rae doing?”

“She’s all right,” I said. “She’s going to call her brother. They haven’t spoken in a long time.”

“You convinced my mom to call Uncle Jay?” Bronte asked. “I’m impressed.”

“I wouldn’t say I convinced her. I’d say she realizes she might need him in her life right now.”

“Huh. I can’t even remember the last time I saw him. I was a kid.”

Whitlock brushed a hand down his trousers like he was dusting off lint and then stood. “This sick old guy needs to get going. It was nice spending time with you today, Bronte.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

We said our goodbyes, and I watched the man I’d forevermore refer to as the ‘Teenager Whisperer’ get inside his car. As I watched him drive down the road, I noticed someone sitting inside of a silver pickup truck several houses down.

Nothing nefarious about that, right?

Still, I wondered why anyone was idling there.

I made a mental note of the time, and Bronte smacked a hand against the concrete, looking up at me as she said, “Wanna sit down?”

I sat, shocked she’d offered me an invitation.

“I … uhh … you know, I feel a little bad about before, about what I said to you in the house,” she said.

Feeling a little bad wasn’t a lot bad, but it was something.

“You’re going through a lot right now,” I said. “I get it.”

“Yeah, I’m not always a … you know, a—”

“It’s all right. You don’t need to say it. I’m not always one either. Sometimes though …”

She smiled like she appreciated me going easy on her.

“The detective told me some things about you,” she said.

“Good things, I hope,”

“Most of it was good.”

“Are you saying some of it wasn’t?”

“I’m saying some of it was depressing and sad.”

It explained why she was being so nice.

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