Page 78 of Don't Say a Word

“Why are you sad?” he asked.

Because you’re in here, I thought.

I said, “The same reason.”

He didn’t comment.

Then I changed the subject. We talked about family and what Tess had planned for Mom’s birthday tomorrow. Dad told me he asked Aunt Rita to pick up a specific gift from him, but didn’t tell me what it was. Then I told him about my case and why I wanted to talk to Ben Bradford.

My dad had always had a good poker face, but I could tell he didn’t agree with my plan.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I said.

“People make decisions—big and small—for a multitude of reasons. Why do you think this man will share information withyou when he chose not to share it with the police when it may have helped him reduce his sentence?”

“Fear,” I said.

Dad was right. I’d already considered that Bradford wouldn’t tell me anything of value, but I was good at reading between the lines.

“I don’t have any reason to believe that Elijah was or is connected to Bradford’s drug operation,” I said. “I want to understand how it worked, because then maybe I can make sense of what information I do have.”

“Do you think that this kid was involved in dealing drugs?”

I shook my head. “I think he may have stumbled on a crime and was unsure what to do with the information he had.” I told him what I found on Elijah’s computer. “I think Elijah was suspicious of someone he worked with. There were photos of people coming out of the store, and there’s no reason I can think about why he would take those pictures, except that he was looking for someone or watching someone. And none of that may have anything to do with how and why he died.”

Dad looked me in the eye. “Why don’t you turn the information over to the police?”

“Because they closed the case. They’re not going to reopen based on my gut telling me something weird is going on. Elijah’s mom deserves to know if her son was killed, if he died trying to do the right thing.”

Dad slowly nodded. “I understand why you care, Margo. But put yourself in Bradford’s shoes. Consider his motivation for remaining silent, and what you can offer that would make him want to share anything.”

“I’m not going to rat him out.”

“How does he know that?”

Okay, good point. I didn’t have an answer.

“He’s a father,” Dad continued. “Fathers will do anything to protect their family.”

The sentence hung in the air between us, and I knew he wastalking about more than Ben Bradford. I held my breath, willing my dad to say more.

He didn’t. “Be careful,” he finally said. “Both with Bradford and in your investigation. Drugs destroy everyone they touch—addicts, their friends and family, society as a whole. And people dealing them don’t respect or revere life. If they see you as an obstacle, your life will be in danger.”

“I’ll be careful, Dad. I promise.”

Dad left and ten minutes later Ben Bradford walked into the visitors’ room. He looked around, clearly uncertain about the unknown visitor he was called to meet.

I raised my hand. I’d done my research and knew what he looked like.

Like my dad, Bradford had lost weight while in prison, but still looked fit. He’d been overweight but muscular as a football coach; now he was lean and muscular. Though younger than my dad, he’d lost most of his hair and his eyes were tired and wary.

Cautious, he approached.

“You’re not a reporter, are you?”

“No.”

Still skeptical, he stood and looked me over.