“In, um, a monogamous sense, yes.” Before she could ask what that meant, I hurried on. “I’m also Keme’s friend, and Iwas wondering if I could ask you a few questions. In particular, where was he—”
“How is Keme?” She said his name with delight, and her smile broadened. “How’s he doing?”
I had to reboot again. It wasn’t only the question—although the implications behind it were bad enough. Among other things, it made me think the deputies hadn’t talked to her yet. But more than that, it was the tone. The unqualified happiness.
In retrospect, I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting. A drunk, maybe. Someone with a substance-abuse problem. Even a raspy-voiced cocktail waitress who reeked of cigarette smoke would have made more sense to me than…this. The shine in her eyes, the rise of her voice, the smile, the Disney princess softness—this, I didn’t know how to handle.
“Uh,” I said.
(That’s me. I’m a writer.)
“Well,” I tried again, “that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. I was wondering if you’ve seen Keme lately.”
“Oh sure. He was here last night.”
That seemed a little too easy. “He was?”
She nodded.
“What time was he here?” I asked.
“Five? Six? What time was Keme here, Foster?”
The man on the sofa—presumably Foster—didn’t answer.
“Oh!” she said. “It was after dark. I was plugging in the lights.”
“Okay,” I said. “And what time did he leave?”
That seemed to be a real stumper. She frowned and folded her hands on the laminate tabletop. “I don’t know. Foster, what time did Keme leave?”
Nothing.
“He wasn’t here very long,” September said. “A few minutes is all.”
“He didn’t stay here last night?”
September frowned. “No. Why would he?”
Because you’re his momseemed like a good starting point, but somehow I managed to say, “He doesn’t sleep here?”
Her tone was perplexed, like I was asking a question she didn’t understand—or maybe like she couldn’t figure out whyIdidn’t understand. “No.”
“Do you know where he might have stayed last night?” I asked. “Somewhere he might have gone. Maybe his dad’s?”
“Keme’s dad died. A long time ago.”
From the sofa came, “Why are you asking about where that kid slept last night?”
I twisted in my seat to look at Foster. He was still watching TV, but his fingers were restless on the remote, bumping over the little rubberized buttons.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “who are you?”
“That’s Foster,” September said, as though that explained everything.
“What’s the nature of your relationship?” I asked, but I directed the question to the man.
His gaze snapped to me, and he sat up. I saw what I hadn’t noticed before—he’d been lying on a bag of frozen peas, and he had one heck of a shiner on his cheekbone. “Why’s it any of your business?”
