Page 8 of Wham Line (The Last Picks #10)

The drive took us first through Clatsop State Forest. In daylight, it was a beautiful, scenic drive.

You followed a blacktop two-lane through hills of Sitka spruce, Douglas fir, lodgepole pine—massively tall trees that shaded the road and made the air cool and resinous when you lowered your window.

Ferns bristled along the edges of the road, and along the shoulder lay a thick duff instead of gravel or broken asphalt.

Sometimes, when the light was right, you’d glimpse vibrant green moss carpeting the ground and fuzzing the trunks of the trees.

At night, it was a narrow black fork and a dusty scatter of stars overhead.

I made a quick call to the sheriff to let her know what had happened, and then I texted the Last Picks.

After that, we drove in silence because music seemed inappropriate.

I had offered to drive, but Bobby had only shaken his head.

I tried not to watch him, but I caught myself looking over from time to time, trying to read his face.

The light from the dash only gave so much, but it was enough to make out the familiar lines of his face.

Impassive. That was the best word for it.

Not exactly calm. Not relaxed. It was the kind of tension that, on somebody else, I might have thought meant a headache that wouldn’t go away.

Eventually, we left the forest and reached open ground.

Ag fields spread out around us. The sky lost its few stars to light pollution, and what I could see of it through the windshield looked rippled and matte like badly worked lead.

At first, we passed farms: houses wearing rings of light; the dark silhouettes of outbuildings; a lone tree, branches bare under the February cold.

Then, mile by mile, more and more buildings started to crop up.

Light industrial buildings of corrugated steel.

Chain-link fences penning in backhoes and excavators.

The back of a brick strip mall that housed a dentist and a real estate agent.

The hot white of a high-pressure sodium lamp burning twenty-four hours in a McDonald’s parking lot.

Accompanied by nothing but the hum of tires, with the world empty at this hour, it took on a surreal quality, like we’d left Hastings Rock and walked into someone else’s nightmare.

Bobby’s family lived on the far side of Portland—a suburb, technically, which meant we had to go through the city and cross the Willamette and then go south.

The homes here looked older, from the fifties and sixties, although I was sure they were still wildly expensive.

The streets were old too, patched but free of litter.

Yards were well maintained. The houses were cute: one that was Tudorish, with a steeply pitched roof and asbestos shingles; a cottage with a neat brick chimney; a little green ranch with scalloped siding.

The trees were old and furred with moss, and big branches hung out over the street.

The house that we stopped at fit perfectly on the street.

It was a ranch built with one section at a quirky angle—either because it was an addition, or because the architect had gotten a wild hair.

The paint was tan and in good condition, and it had a low roof and minimalist landscaping; you could tell everything was taken care of.

That seemed to be the primary objective: for things to be neat and orderly and in their place.

It wasn’t hard to picture a young Bobby being put to work mowing the lawn and making sure he edged and trimmed and got every single blade of grass the exact same length.

A Range Rover was parked in the driveway, so Bobby pulled up to the curb.

When he reached for the keys, I took his hand. I’d been thinking about what to say the whole drive. How to say it. How to make sure he heard it. I’d also been thinking about how to get through the last hour and a half crescendo of nerves without throwing up.

His eyes cut to me—not annoyance, not even impatience, but I thought I could feel it welling up in him before he tamped it back down.

“Hey,” I said, and I tried for a smile. “You’re going to get through this. I promise. No matter how hard it gets, you’re going to get through it because we’re in this together. I’m here for you, and I love you so much.”

Bobby closed his eyes for a second. He squeezed my hand.

And then he switched off the Pilot, pulled the keys from the ignition, and got out.

He insisted on carrying the bags again, so all I could do was follow him to the door. Bobby tried the handle, and when the door opened, he knocked and called out, “Hello?”

A man’s voice floated out to us: “Back here.”

In the foyer, Bobby removed his sneakers, and I followed suit; I even made sure to line our shoes up on the tray next to the door. A pair of black flats waited there, and I couldn’t help looking at them. Had Bobby noticed them? Should I move them before he did?

But Bobby was already heading into the house.

It took me about five seconds to realize that: a) in spite of what had clearly been expensive and thorough upgrades, this house had some serious Brady Bunch vibes; and b) whoever had designed it had been cuckoo.

The little foyer flowed into the main living area; that wasn’t the weird part.

The weird parts were the massive fieldstone fireplace that had been painted white; the fact that every room I could see was at a different height, which meant there were steps going up and down at every transition; and the spiral staircase leading down to the basement directly off the foyer (it would have thrilled nine-year-old Dash; present-day Dash wondered if anyone had ever fallen down it).

That, of course, immediately made me think of Bobby’s mom, and I swear to God, my heart stopped beating for about three seconds.

Bobby was already stepping down into the living room.

He set our bags on the floor and kept walking, so I hurried after him.

We had to take three steps up and pass through an archway into the kitchen, which had the same updated Brady Bunch aesthetic: a large, open space with a breakfast nook; double wall ovens; a stone veneer that, like the fireplace, had been painted white.

Swap out the countertops for laminate, paint a few things orange, and pick up some Danish modern seating, and Jan and Marsha and the rest would have felt right at home.

Two men sat at the table in the breakfast nook.

One was clearly Bobby’s brother; they looked too much alike to be anything else.

Eric was a few years older, and he had the same heart-shaped face, the same straight nose, the same glossy black hair.

Bobby was bigger. Not taller, but he carried more muscle, where Eric was trim and clearly in shape, but slender.

The clothes were different too; Bobby’s hoodie and joggers were (I’m not kidding) ones he had picked up at the Keel Haul, Hastings Rock’s only grocery store.

Eric’s sweater was cashmere, and I recognized the brand of his jeans and knew they were in a price range I liked to describe as stratospheric.

I had an idea who owned the Range Rover in the driveway.

The other man was older and had to be their dad, although the features weren’t the same.

I realized at that moment I didn’t know Bobby’s dad’s first name; he’d always been Bobby’s dad in my head, and since I hadn’t met Bobby’s family, it hadn’t been an issue.

He was smaller than both his sons, thin to the point of looking frail, with a worn-out donut of salt-and-pepper hair and a scalp speckled with sunspots.

A pair of frameless glasses perched on his nose.

There was no expression on his face—nothing I could read, anyway, and his eyes were clear.

He had both hands around a mug of tea that looked like it hadn’t been touched.

Without a word, Eric stood. I thought maybe he and Bobby would hug, but they didn’t.

Bobby’s dad stood too. That was it. Everybody was standing now.

Eric was inspecting me and making zero attempts to hide it; Bobby’s dad didn’t seem to be looking at anything.

My face heated, and I got that I’m-trapped-in-a-wool-sweater feeling that’s the charming prelude to such things as, oh, a panic attack.

“This is Dash,” Bobby said. Then to me, “This is my brother, Eric. And my dad.”

Bobby’s dad shook my hand.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

He nodded.

“Nice of you to come,” Eric said when he took his turn.

His tone was difficult to parse; it might have meant exactly what he said, or it might have meant I’d surprised him somehow.

Like, maybe I was the kind of boyfriend who couldn’t be bothered to deal with inconvenient things like his partner’s mom dying. “Sit down.”

We all sat.

Then the house was silent. It was an oppressive, staticky silence that seemed to build and build—a combination of ambient noise and the whisper of blood in my ears until the so-called silence was like this incessant, shimmering chime.

“Dad came home from the store,” Eric said. “She was already gone. A heart attack. Maybe a stroke.”

It wasn’t clear if this was for me or for Bobby, and there was no way to tell from Bobby’s face if it was new information. But after a moment, Bobby said to me, “Eric’s a doctor.”

That seemed to call for something, so I took a page out of the family book and nodded.

Eric’s eyes tightened, and he looked away.

More of that silence came pouring in.

What did good boyfriends do in this kind of situation? What would I want someone to do for me and my family? I’d want them to be attentive. I’d want them to be compassionate. I’d want to know they cared about my family.

So, I said to Bobby’s dad, “How are you doing? Can I get you anything?”

Nothing. He stared out over his mug of tea.

“We’ve had the police all over the place,” Eric said to Bobby, like this was somehow Bobby’s fault. “And they’re not saying when the medical examiner will release her, so that’s great for trying to plan a funeral.”

Bobby nodded.

And then we dropped into another of those conversational troughs.

I tried not to, but I found myself looking around the kitchen.

Neat. Clean. Everything put away, not that I’d expect different from a family of Mais—everything except the reusable grocery bags on the counter.

One lay on its side, as though it had been left unattended and fallen.

Bok choy spilled out of it, and a package of rice noodles, and three dark plums. A framed photo of the Mai family hung on one wall.

It showed Bobby and Eric as children; their dad looked a little less stooped, with a little more hair, but not much different otherwise.

The woman in the photo was petite, her hair worn in a short, sensible bob, in a skirt and blouse combo that made her look older than she probably was.

The picture was small, and it was on the other side of the kitchen, but it was hard to see Bobby in her.

And still no one had said anything.

Something clicked in the fridge, and the sound of running water came briefly—incongruous, disorienting; maybe, by some miracle, we were about to get flooded out.

Mr. Mai’s tea gave off a faint, malty aroma.

It was barely eleven, and somehow it felt like this was one of the small hours of the morning, the middle of the longest night I’d ever lived.

Bobby had his hands folded in his lap. Mr. Mai held his mug. Eric ran a finger over his jeans.

I was the one who broke first (big surprise).

Besides, this was something I actually knew something about, something that might be helpful for them to know too, if only to give them context for what must have been one of the most awful nights of their lives.

“I know that must have been difficult, having the police here, but I think it’s protocol. ”

Eric looked at me. Mr. Mai didn’t.

“With any unattended death, I mean,” I said.

Eric was still looking at me, and the room felt hotter.

“In case—well, just to be sure.” Okay, I told myself.

That’s enough. But my mouth kept moving.

“And, of course—” Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it.

But the word I was trying not to say popped out anyway.

“—the autopsy is required to determine the cause and manner of death.” Sweat popped out across my face and under my arms; a flush prickled my neck and down my chest. Mr. Mai was looking at me now.

“It usually doesn’t take more than a couple of days, although you’ll probably have to wait several months for the full report. ”

The room tilted. I tried to take deep breaths without looking like I was taking deep breaths, and it worked about as well as you’d expect: I couldn’t get enough air, and the room kept tilting.

That familiar white noise started up in my ears, a high, rushing sound that made it feel like I couldn’t hear anything.

But Eric pushed back his chair, and the legs scraped the floor, and I heard that fine. As he stood, his gaze swept over me, once, with the expression of someone who had turned over a rock and found a new kind of bug.

“I’ve got to get home,” he said. “Alice is alone with the kids.” He gave me one last look and added as he started for the door. “You should probably call West; you know he and Mom were close.”