So Trina Simms had a son—a son who was significantly taller and bigger than either Michael or Dean.
“Christopher!” A nasal shriek broke through the air.
“You should go,” Trina’s son said. His voice was low, gravelly and soothing, even when the words he was saying weren’t. “My mother doesn’t like company.”
I glanced down at the pastel welcome mat. The front door flew open, and I nearly lost my balance hopping out of the way.
“Christopher, where is my—” The woman who’d come out of the door came to a standstill. She surveyed us for a moment with squinted eyes. Then she beamed. “Visitors!” she said. “What are you selling?”
“We’re not selling anything,” Dean said. “We’re here to talk to you, ma’am—assuming you are Trina Simms?”
Dean’s accent was more pronounced than I’d ever heard it. The woman smiled at him, and I remembered what Daniel Redding had said about Dean being the kind of child people loved on sight.
“I’m Trina,” the woman said. “For goodness’ sakes, Christopher, stop slouching. Can’t you see we have company?”
Christopher made no move to stand straighter. From my perspective, he wasn’t slouching at all. I turned my attention back to his mother. Trina Simms had hair that had probably been up in rollers all morning. She wasn’t wearing any makeup except for red lipstick.
“I suppose it’s too much to hope you’re friends of Christopher’s?” she said to us. “He has all of these friends, but he never brings them by.”
“No, ma’am,” Dean replied. “We just met.”
If by “met” Dean meant “silently assessed each other.”
“You’re a pretty one.” It took me a moment to realize that Trina was talking to me. “Look at all of that hair.”
My hair was slightly longer and slightly thicker than average—nothing worth commenting on.
“And those shoes,” Trina continued, “they’re precious!”
I was wearing canvas tennis shoes.
“I always wanted a girl,” Trina confessed.
“Are we inviting them in or aren’t we, Mother?” Christopher’s voice had a slight edge.
“Oh,” Trina said, stiffening suddenly. “I’m not sure we should.”
If your son hadn’t said anything, you would have invited us in yourself, I thought. There was something about the dynamic between the two of them that made me uncomfortable.
“Did you ask them why they’re here?” Trina’s hands went to her hips. “Three strangers show up on your mother’s porch, and you don’t even—”
“He asked, but I hadn’t gotten to introduce myself yet,” Dean cut in. “My name is Dean.”
A spark of interest flickered in Trina’s eyes. “Dean?” she repeated. She took a step forward, elbowing me to the side. “Dean what?”
Dean didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t react in any way to her scrutiny. “Redding,” he said. He glanced over at Christopher, then back at Trina. “I believe you know my father.”
The inside of the Simms house contrasted sharply with the overgrown front lawn. The floors were immaculately clean. Porcelain figures sat on every available surface. Dozens of framed pictures hung on the hallway walls: Christopher in school picture after school picture, the same solemn stare on his face in each. There was only one picture of a man. I took a closer look and froze. The man was smiling warmly. There were a few wrinkles near the edges of his eyes. I recognized him.
Daniel Redding. What kind of woman had a fondness for doilies and hung a serial killer’s picture on her wall?
“You have his eyes.” Trina ushered us into the living room. She sat opposite Dean. Her gaze never left his face, like she was trying to memorize it. Like she was starving, and he was food. “The rest of you…Well, Daniel always said you had a lot of your mother in her.” Trina paused, her lips pursed. “I can’t say I knew her. She didn’t grow up here, you know. Daniel went to college—always so smart. He came back with her. And then there was you, of course.”
“Did you know my father growing up?” Dean asked. His voice was perfectly polite. He seemed perfectly at ease.
This was hurting him.
“No,” Trina said. Another purse of the lips was followed by an explanation. “He was quite a few grades younger than me, you know—not that a lady ever tells her age.”
“What are you doing here?” Christopher threw that question at Dean from the entryway to the room, his arms crossed over his chest. His face was cast in shadows, but his voice left no doubt to his feelings about this turn of events. He didn’t want Dean in his house. He didn’t want Dean’s father’s picture on his walls.
Not that I blamed him.
“Dean is welcome here,” Trina said sharply. “If things go well with the appeal, this could be his home.”
“Appeal?” Dean said.
“Your father’s appeal,” Trina said patiently. “The evidence they planted.”
“They being the FBI?” Michael asked. Trina waved a hand at him like she was waving away a fly.