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Homemade food to-go meant a trip to see someone recently bereaved. Who might just have information on what happened to her son.
“Where are you off to?” I asked.
Dad grinned as he adjusted the collar on his coat. “I thought you didn’t want us to discuss our relationships?”
I rolled my eyes. “If you’re planning on rocking up to a date with a lukewarm lasagne, let me save you the trouble and tell you right now: you won’t get another one.”
“Oh, very funny. I’m just popping by George’s to drop this off.” Dad gave the dish a wiggle.
“I’m coming.” I hurried down the rest of the steps and grabbed my own coat off the hanger.
“Are you sure you want to?” Dad asked. “I wouldn’t expect much conversation.”
“No, but it’s nice to show support, right?”
I brushed off the guilt as we walked to the car. Tactless was the best word I could think of for going to a recently bereaved mother’s home to discuss her son’s activities before his death.
But if Tyler had really thought his mother was in danger somehow, I owed it to him to investigate as soon as possible.
The Bakewells lived on the outskirts of the Teapot Forest, so named for its uncanny resemblance to a teapot from above. To my memory, the Bakewells’ garden had always been alive with wildlife due to its array of tempting flowers and vegetables, but as we walked down the garden path, the weeds tickled my knees.
I bit my lip as Dad knocked on the door. Michaela had neglected this place long before Tyler died.
George answered the door, his smile tight when he saw us. “Theo, Maeve. What brings you out here?”
Dad held up the lasagne dish. “Just bringing a little dinner round to check up on you both.”
George stepped aside and we stepped over the threshold into the living room.
A wall of warm, stale air hit me as we walked in.
Empty takeout containers littered the coffee table and mantelpiece that hugged the wall above the electric fireplace. A collection of empty wine bottles stood together between the sofa and an armchair. Someone had made a half-hearted effort to hide them.
I had never actually stepped inside the house before, so it could have been like this all the time, but I doubted it.
Michaela was curled up under a blanket in a recliner chair, with red eyes and a puffy face.
“How’re you holding up, Mickey?” Dad squatted down next to her and offered her his hand.
Michaela took it and shook her head but didn’t look at him.
“We won’t take up much of your time, but Sandra wanted to make sure you were eating well, so we brought you some food,” Dad said.
“Thank you.” Michaela’s voice was so cracked, I wondered how long she’d gone without speaking. “For getting his body back.”
I swallowed at the lump in my throat, but it didn’t budge.
What should I even say to that? You’re welcome?
“I’ll… go find somewhere to put this,” I said, before heading for the only other door in the room.
I navigated the corridor, peering in through a few doors before finding the kitchen. It wasn’t in a much better state, only in this room there were poker chips and cards strewn on the kitchen table.
Making a beeline for the fridge, my shoes made a horrible, sticky noise with each step.
What was I thinking? Michaela had given me a perfect opening to speak to her about Tyler and I had walked away. Some detective I made.
The fridge was pretty empty, so I slid the lasagne inside and closed the door.
