Page 92 of The Pocket Pair

The guy has his back to me, looking around the room like he’s taking in every detail. “Is this where you question criminals?”

“Suspects. And yeah, when we need to. Coffee? It’s terrible. Might kill you.”

“Sure. Let’s live dangerously.” When he turns back to me his smile is barely there, then gone. But even in that quick flash, my unease turns to something worse: dread.

Because I think I recognize that dimpled smile. And I think I know why he looks familiar.

I keep my eyes down, trying to keep my hand from shaking as I pour. I’m mostly composed when I set it down in front of him. He’s seated in the chair I usually would use, and I sink down into the one that’s normally for suspects.

He takes a sip. Makes a face. I lift the Styrofoam cup to my lips. Drink. Taste nothing.

Setting down his cup, he crosses his arms. “I’ve been trying to reach you, but you keep sending my letters back.”

“Charlie,” I say. My stomach churns.

“So you know who I am.”

“I didn’t at first.”

We stare at each other across the interrogation table with matching blue eyes—my half-brother and me. We have similar coloring, different face shapes and different bodies too. He’s tall and angular, long lean legs stuffed into faded jeans and sneakers.

He looks away first, staring down at his knuckles, which don’t look all that unlike mine the night Val bandaged me up at CVS. Even thinking about her right now makes me feel even sicker. I shove thoughts of her away.

“Are you in trouble?” I ask. “Is that why you’re here? Do you need help or something?”

“You really didn’t read any of my letters?”

“Nope.”

Not entirely true. I started reading the first one until I got to the part about his—our—dad. The thing with letters is they’re so much more personal. Knowing the person writing touched the same paper, folded it up. Seeing their handwriting and how they write. It’s so much more invasive than sliding into someone’s dms. Also, you can’t block letters the way you can a phone number—you have to return them to the sender.

Until the sender seeks you out.

“I’m not in trouble,” he—Charlie—says. “I just …” Lifting one of his hands, he drags it through his hair, which is longer than mine and a few shades darker.

“I just don’t know what to do or how to process this, you know?”

I do know. And I’d rather not be processing anything with this stranger. My ribs feel like they’re cinching in, squeezing my lungs and heart in a vise grip.

Charlie leans forward, his elbows on the table, eyes flashing. “I don’t even know where he’s buried. Didn’t get to attend the funeral. He was never there a lot, but then he was just gone. And, I mean, I should hate him. Right? Do you hate him?”

I’ve read about panic attacks. Witnessed a few. And I refuse to have one right now, so I take a moment to steady my breathing. Nice and slow through the nose, then out. In and hold … then out. The tightness in my chest eases. Slightly.

“I’m still trying to figure that out,” I tell him. “But yeah—I think I hate him a little. Probably only because I loved him so much first.”

We sit there in silence after what may be one of the most raw and honest things I’ve ever said. I don’t know if I should ask him questions, or even if I want to. Maybe I should comfort him, but I don’t know how because I’ve had no comfort myself. I never read his letters, so I don’t know if he has some kind of endgame or something he wants. Maybe money like his mama did.

I reach for my coffee, seeing the slightest tremor in my fingers. As I take a sip, Charlie lifts his cup and drains it, then slams it on the table like he just won the battle of the bad coffee. The Styrofoam crumples, and he stares at it like he’s shocked somehow.

Just as I’m about to ask maybe a little too bluntly what he really wants, the door to the room flies open. Val stands there, grinning at me and obviously not reading the room. She doesn’t even seem to see Charlie, but I notice how he straightens in his seat.

Val dives forward, giving me a hug around the neck from behind. My whole body hardens, like I was just filled up with quick-drying cement.

“I was just running an errand and had to say hi,” Val says. She kisses my cheek, loudly, then must notice Charlie. “Oh. The new guy said someone stopped by, but I didn’t realize you were doing official police stuff. Sorry!”

I don’t say anything as Val stands, squeezing my shoulders once before backing toward the door. I can’t even turn to look at her.

“Sorry again to interrupt. Anyway. I’m making dinner tonight. Just let me know when you’ll be home. Bye!”

---