Brooklyn Graves by Triss Stein Page B

as the fall evening temperature dropped.
    â€œWhat are you doing, sitting on this cold concrete?”
    â€œNo one home.” His teeth were chattering. For real, not as an expression. “Needed to see you.”
    â€œYou get right in here, and I’ll have something warm for you in a sec.”
    Chris not home? Where was she? I couldn’t remember. I had to check my calendar. Nothing. Phone? There was a message I had not heard. She would be home after dinner. Stayed at school library to work.
    â€œMrs. Donato…I…”
    I had been Erica to him since he was six years old. He was really rattled.
    â€œNot a word until you warm up. Grab that afghan on the sofa.”
    I microwaved milk on High, added chocolate syrup and stuck a cup into his hands, probably scorching his fingers. He gulped it down.
    â€œBetter? Now talk. What are you doing here?”
    â€œI found something.” He struggled to get the words out. I didn’t know if he was still freezing, had burned his tongue on the hot milk or if it was the distress I could see so clearly in his eyes. “I came to you—you said I could. Did I do right?”
    His sudden look of uncertainty went right to my heart.
    â€œYes, you did.” That was the only possible answer, no matter what he meant. “How can I help?”
    As he took his left hand out of his jacket pocket, I realized he had kept it there the whole time. Was he hurt? Was it a weapon?
    It was a cell phone.
    â€œAlex?”
    â€œNot mine. My father’s.”
    â€œAnd?” Come on, I thought. Maybe I should have given him coffee; he was having trouble even talking.
    â€œNot his usual phone. My mother has that, or maybe the police now. I think…this is a secret. I found it.…”
    â€œAlex! Talk!”
    He seemed to swallow hard, shake his head, square his shoulders.
    â€œThere is a drawer he has, with old photos and an old camera. I was looking there.” He turned red. “Not snooping. I thought Mom might like any pictures left in the camera. I missed him. I am man of house now.” The dazed expression came back.
    â€œThis I found. Not his usual cell number. Not a dead old phone either. So do I tell my mother? But what if…” He shrugged. “I don’t know what, just I think it is secret.”
    Stall. That’s a lesson I had learned over the years, sometimes painfully. Stall and think.
    I made him another cup of chocolate milk and added a plate of cookies. They were old, stale, supermarket brand. He powered through half a dozen without even seeming to notice.
    Finally, I said, “Don’t you think this might be evidence and the detectives need to have it?”
    He nodded. “But there is no news from them. Are they doing anything at all? I want…we must…find out about my father. I need that and my mother needs that. So what if they just throw this back in a drawer and do nothing? And my mother? I don’t want her upset. What if…?” After a long silence, he went on. “I don’t know. What if my father has a reason for a secret? Something my mother should not know?”
    â€œPerhaps this is just a backup phone, with nothing sinister at all.”
    â€œI thought that, yes. Maybe yes. I thought I could call some numbers, find out.”
    â€œYou didn’t! Oh, Alex, that was not a good idea.”
    â€œWell, so what? I did it. But then I did not know what to say so I hung up again.”
    I pulled out a napkin, wrapped my hand in it, and opened the phone.
    He leaned over my shoulder as I hit Contacts. What popped up was mostly a list of businesses. “Joe Hlavik and Sons, Plumbers.” “Lightning Electrical.” “Costa, Pete—see Venice Ironwork.”
    Just what you would expect from a man who worked as a custodian and lived in an old house. At first glance I did not see anything alarming, like women’s names or dating services. Alex might be