“It was a long time ago,” Matthew said, scratching at his chin, trying to look thoughtful. “I don’t want to be quoted on this or anything, but the way I remember it was that Dustin was a good kid. They both got drunk, and maybe he should have been more careful, but she should have been more careful as well. It was just one of those things . . . it happens. I don’t think it would have been worth ruining Dustin’s life over what had happened.”
The detective smiled again with his thin lips and studied Matthew for a moment. “Thank you. That’s very helpful,” he said. He put his hands on his knees, as though he was ready to stand.
“Is that all?” Matthew asked.
“That’s all. Unless you can remember anything else?”
“Like I said, I don’t remember him very well.”
“But he was a good kid, you remember that?”
“Well, he wasn’t a bad kid, that much I can remember.”
The detective stood, rising easily from the sofa, and so did Matthew. They walked together to the door, Matthew wondering if Detective Martinez was going to ask to use a bathroom or look around the house. This had to be about the fencing trophy, right? This had to be because his new neighbor had called the cops on him. Matthew almost hoped that the detective would ask to look around and that he could show him into his study, but once they were through the front door, the detective was offering his hand to shake, and Matthew was shaking it.
“You came a long way for not very much,” Matthew said.
“Well, you never know. And it’s a beautiful day for a drive.”
Matthew hadn’t noticed the day, but it was beautiful—dry crisp air, deep blue sky. “It’s nice,” he said.
“I love this area. All these nice houses. Lot of kids in this neighborhood? Good schools?”
“Yeah, the public school is good,” Matthew said. “That’s what I hear.”
Matthew stood in the doorway for a few minutes and watched the detective drive away.
Chapter 13
After making the phone call to the Cambridge police that morning, Hen paced the house some more, then got herself a second coffee and tried to sit with her sketchbook. She still hadn’t sketched the two remaining illustrations for the new chapter book she was working on. The book was called School for Lore Warriors: The Anti-Claus. It was the first in a series—all children’s books these days were in series—and it was about a military school for teenagers that taught them how to fight supernatural creatures. Most of her commissions these days involved the supernatural. It wasn’t her favorite type of book to work on, because she often had to imagine what make-believe creatures looked like, and the authors were never happy. She’d much rather do illustrations for young adult suspense, like the ones she’d loved as a teenager. Lois Duncan. V. C. Andrews. But these types of books just weren’t that popular these days.
When she opened her sketchbook she saw the picture she’d drawn the night before. A large cat in bed, and the young girl on the windowsill. She’d forgotten all about it, and it startled her, especially the eyes on the boy who perched on the limb of the tree. She loved the drawing, as much as she’d loved anything she’d drawn for years, and suddenly, with an almost physical pull, she wanted to go to her studio and begin the process of creating a print. She bolted upstairs and put on her clogs, plus a light sweater that, because of several small holes, had recently been demoted to a work sweater. Downstairs, she got her sketch pad and her keys and went outside. She felt guilty, knowing that she should be spending any work time fulfilling her contract for the chapter book, but told herself that once she was in her studio she’d find time to work on Lore Warriors as well. She walked to the end of Sycamore, turning right onto Crane Avenue, then down the hill to the Black Brick Studios, where she’d rented her space. It was in an old textile mill, built next to the Scituate River, four stories in brick that contained just over sixty studio spaces. Hen’s was in the basement, one of the less desirable studios because it didn’t have a view. But it did have a utility sink, which she needed, and it was large enough to hold both of her printing presses, moved at great cost