The door to the small room opened once more and Robinson came back in with the coffee. He placed a fresh cup in front of Annabelle and stepped back to the wall, resuming his earlier task of note taking.
Chen waited patiently for her to continue.
“Cass said something about Sam maybe dying and Max leaving to take care of his son. But it felt strange to me. So, I went down the hall. Cass went with me.”
“Who is Sam?” Chen asked.
“Sam is Max’s dog. He’s very old,” Annabelle supplied.
Chen nodded. Robinson’s pencil continued to scratch. The sound accompanied Annabelle’s words like an abrasive echo.
“We got to Max’s door and I turned the knob.” At this, she stopped. She didn’t have to pretend to be shaken by this process of review. Her hands trembled of their own accord as she reached for her coffee cup and tried to take a sip without it spilling. She managed a few swallows, ignoring the brief sting of too-hot liquid against her throat.
“Max was on the floor… with the bottle…” She closed her eyes, put down the cup, and ran a hand through her long thick hair. She really didn’t want to do this any longer.
The room was silent, then, Robinson’s writing having ceased. Annabelle kept her eyes closed and pressed her hand to her forehead. After what must have been a full minute, she put her hand down and opened her eyes, looking up at the detective sitting across from her.
Chen’s expression was unreadable. Yes, Annabelle thought. She’s done this before.
Finally, Chen stood and nodded once at Annabelle. “Thank you, Miss Drake. We appreciate your cooperation. You’re free to go; Dylan Anderson has been asking to see you and he’s waiting two doors down. You can take him with you if you’d like.” She moved to Robinson and the two exchanged glances. There was a lot of unspoken knowledge passed between them in that single glance.
“If you think of anything further, Miss Drake, please don’t hesitate to let us know.” Robinson nodded at her one last time and then turned and opened the door. Chen walked through the door, motioning for Annabelle to follow.
Annabelle stood and left the room, Robinson following after her. She stopped just outside it and Chen turned to face her. The dark-haired woman gestured to a door down the hall. “He’s in that room.”
The door was slightly ajar. Annabelle pictured the teenager who waited inside. She wondered what state he would be in. What he would look like.
With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and moved to the door. The detectives disappeared around the corner, but Annabelle knew they wouldn’t be far away.
After a moment’s hesitation, she pushed the door open and entered the room.
“Dylan.”
He was sitting alone at a table that was a carbon copy of the one she’d been sitting at, in a room that was a twin to the one she’d just left. He looked up at her as she entered and she studied him. He looked normal. Dressed in the jeans and t-shirt that were the proverbial uniform of the seventeen-year-old, the high-tops that were standard issue, and the longer-than-acceptable wavy brown hair that fell just to his shoulders, he looked like quintessential Dylan. It was what was in his eyes that brought Annabelle up short. He had his father’s eyes. And there was something unfathomable in those green depths.
“Miss Drake…” When he spoke, his young voice was strained; his throat sounded dry. But even after all that he’d suffered and in the midst of the horror that he would most assuredly continue to suffer for some time, Annabelle realized that the kid was being respectful. Miss Drake.
“Dylan,” she repeated, fighting back the tears that threatened her eyes once more. She rushed to the table as Dylan simultaneously stood, and the two met in motion, colliding in an embrace of desperate pain. One of them had lost a father. The other had lost a friend. Somewhere in there was a connection, as thin as it may be, of essential empathy. For the moment, they had each other.
Like his father, Dylan was tall. The top of Annabelle’s head came to his jaw bone, and he wasn’t a skinny boy either. Hugging him reminded Annabelle of hugging his father. She hiccupped as new sobs assaulted her, and Dylan’s embrace tightened.
If he was crying, he was doing so silently. So, she cried for them both.
Finally, Dylan’s arms loosened their grip and Annabelle reluctantly pulled away. She looked up at him and, without thinking, he brushed the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs.
“Can… can we leave?” he asked then, his voice still strained.
Annabelle nodded, let him go, and turned toward the door. Without a word, Dylan followed after.
As they left the double door entrance to the station house, a black Audi with dark tinted windows pulled alongside the walk. The car idled and Dylan gently grabbed hold of Annabelle’s elbow, pulling her to a stop. A new band of tension had taken over him; his body was ramrod straight, his green eyes flashing.
Annabelle looked from him to the car and moved forward to step between them. She turned to Dylan.
“It’s Jack,” she told him softly. “He’s here to help.”
Dylan watched the car for a long, quiet while, several different strong emotions chasing each other across his features. At last, he looked down at Annabelle. “I don’t trust him, Miss Drake. And I need to talk to you alone. It’s important.”
Annabelle looked up at him, her brow furrowed. She watched as Dylan glanced from the car back to the building behind them. He seemed nervous, among other things.
She couldn’t blame him for not trusting Jack. He had a lot of his father in him and, of course, he’d also always known how his father felt about her. Hence, he saw Jack as the same kind of threat that his father did. However, Dylan was very intuitive. His distrust of Jack Thane ran deeper. With him, it was more than jealousy. There was a wary unease. It was almost as if he knew…
“Dylan, let him give us a ride to my apartment. Then we’ll talk.”
Dylan looked back down at her. Jack got out of the car, his expression unreadable. Dylan looked up at him and his grip on her elbow tightened.
“Mr. Thane,” he said, respectfully, keeping his tone low.
“Dylan. I’m so sorry about your father.” Jack’s voice was soft, his British accent lending his words a sincerity that Annabelle was not sure he felt. It was unfair.
Dylan nodded. Once.
“Let me give you both a ride home.” Then Jack leveled his gaze on Annabelle. She felt herself warm beneath its intense scrutiny. “Besides,” he continued slowly, “we all need to talk.”
Annabelle closed her eyes and nodded. She gently pulled her arm away from Dylan and moved to the car. Jack opened the passenger side door. She knew that Dylan would follow. He’d told her he needed to speak with her, and she could tell he meant it.
She got in the front and, after a moment’s more hesitation, Dylan helped himself to the back seat. Annabelle peered at him through the rear-view mirror. He was staring out the window. She looked over at Jack, who slid into the seat beside her and put the car in drive, pulling them silently out of the lot.
After a few minutes in uncomfortable quiet, Jack peered into the rearview mirror, and Annabelle had a feeling that he was pinning Dylan to his seat with that gaze. She looked over her shoulder. Dylan was staring back at him.
At last, Jack spoke, his tone level, his words even. “He gave you the laptop, didn’t he?”