“I was on my way here anyway. I wanted to offer my condolences. My name’s John. Dylan was a friend of mine. I’m very sorry for your loss, ma’am.”
Her eyes begin to water as her head bobs up and down in silent thanks. “It was terrible. He survived so many years in the war and then he was shot in a tattoo parlor, right here in his own city.” She produces a tissue from a pocket and blows her nose. “Would you like to come in for coffee?”
That was even easier than I had expected.
“Here he is, receiving his medal.” She taps on the picture of her son, shaking hands with the president. “I never saw his father more proud of Dylan than on that day. When he passed away six months later, it was as a happy man.”
“I can understand why.” An hour after sitting down to a pot of hot coffee, listening patiently as a devastated mother showcases his local hero medals, and his time as a volunteer firefighter, with letters from little girls and boys who thanked him for saving their kittens from trees and dogs from house fires; a picture of a baby he delivered on the side of the freeway. To top it all off, the highest medal that anyone can receive.
I’m now all but convinced that Royce was not the troublemaker that Bentley painted him as. And if he was, it’s probably because he didn’t agree with what he was seeing over there.
And that is what got him killed.
And no one will ever know the truth, thanks to me.
I’m not sure what I expected to feel after I confirmed this hunch, but it’s not this sickly pain in the pit of my stomach.
His mom sniffles. “As much as I hated what happened to Dylan and Jasmine, I was so happy to have him back home for a while, to help me with cutting the grass and taking out the trash, all those house things. Taking care of this house is a lot of work for just me.”
I glance around at the small tidy house, in need of a good purge that I’m guessing won’t happen until after she’s gone. “Do you have any family in the area?”
She shakes her head. “My sister lives near Syracuse with her kids. They asked me to move there, but I can’t handle the snow. So it’s just me and Fefe now.” At the sound of her name, the little dog runs up to paw at her thigh. Royce’s mom leans over and scoops her up, giving the top of her head a kiss. “I can’t thank you enough. Had I lost her, too, I don’t know that I could handle it.”
“My pleasure, ma’am. Glad I could help.” This woman has helped—and burdened—me so much more.
“Isn’t that right, Fefe? You should say thank you to this man.” Royce’s mother looks up at me and smiles. “She just loves company. The detective on the case has been over a few times and she’s always at his ankles.”
I fight to keep my face calm, curious. So Fields has been here? “Have they told you whether they have any leads?”
She shakes her head through a sip of coffee. “They don’t seem to know anything. At first they said it was a robbery. Then they said it was likely a disagreement between the shop owner and someone. And then, just a few days ago, that Detective Fields started asking questions about Dylan’s old job at that company.”
“Alliance.”
“Yes. Them.”
“Are they thinking this is related to his old job?” This could just be routine questioning. This detective may just be doing his job thoroughly.
“They’re looking at all possibilities, he told me.” She shrugs. “He took my album, though. The one I made with all the pictures Dylan sent me over the years while on deployment. He promised he’d give it back to me when he’s done. It’s all I really have left of my son.”
A sinking feeling hits my stomach. “Pictures of him with the Marines?”
“Yes.” She smiles sadly. “He knew I loved getting pictures from him, seeing him safe and sound. Most times he’d just email them over, but I’d print them out and put them in this big square scrapbook. He kept doing it while he was at Alliance, though he wasn’t sending nearly as many pictures by the end.”