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I step onto the first floor as Officer Anderson is crossing the foyer.
“I was just coming to get you,” he says. “Are you ready to talk to the witness?”
No. “…Yes.”
FIVE
ROWAN
“Mr. Hoyt, thank you so much for waiting.”
Amos Hoyt shakily pushes off the brick retaining wall where he’s been sitting. He’s shivering and his eyes are heavier than they were thirty minutes ago. The adrenaline rush from seeing a dead body is crashing. Rookie Anderson shouldn’t have left him alone. I make a mental note to tell him that next time I see him.
“Would you like to go inside to chat,” I ask, “or perhaps to your house if that would be more comfortable? Next door, correct?”
“My house, yes,” Hoyt says quickly, apparently eager to put distance between him and the crime scene.
“Great. Lead the way.”
We fall into step together. I notice a slight limp in Hoyt’s right leg, though it doesn’t seem to slow him down. In fact, he moves quicker than I anticipated. A gust of uncomfortably cold wind whips between us, sending my hair spiraling around my face. I glance at my car as we pass, at Banjo’s dark silhouette in the back seat.
I see you buddy; I’ll be back soon.
Hoyt leads us across the driveway and through the copse of trees that serve as a natural barrier between the Kaings’ property and his. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness. Hoyt, however, crosses the wooded terrain as if he’s done it a million times. I realize we’re walking on a worn footpath that connects the two homes. I take note of this.
“Do you visit Alyssa Kaing often?”
“No—well, yes.” I have to pick up my pace to keep up with him. “I introduced myself to Alyssa and her husband Zach when they moved in a year or so ago. Shortly after, Alyssa and I kept running into each other at the edge of our back yards. We both like to garden—me fruits and vegetables, her flowers and plants, and we struck up a friendship.”
A lonely widower looking for companionship, it would seem. But again, I’ve learned to assume nothing.
“Is there a Mrs. Hoyt?” I ask, though I know the answer.
“She passed away three years ago. Breast cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
He nods.
We cross over into his front yard. Hoyt’s home resembles the others on the street, brick and big.
“You have a beautiful place.”
“Thank you.”
We step onto the front porch, under a bright security light. Unlike the Kaings’ home, this one is dark, void of interior light. Hoyt flicks on an entry light as we step inside. The musty scent of an underused, aged space clings to the air. The home doesn’t share the grandeur of the Kaings’. It is at least thirty years past its prime and badly in need of renovations. The hardwood floors are faded and scratched, the varnish completely worn away. Dated wallpaper covers the walls. Thin, thread-worn carpet lines the rooms.
I am led down a narrow, dark hallway. Hoyt turns on lights as we go. My gaze shifts from room to room, seeking a line of sight to the Kaings’ home, but the downstairs view is blocked by the trees.
The kitchen is large but simple. Only the necessities. The countertops are bare save for a microwave that reminds me of the one I had in college, and a toaster that I’m sure was once silver. An antique hutch sits caddy-corner, displaying a folded American flag and multiple medals.
“Were you in the military?”
“Marines. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Water. Thank you for your service.”
I think of Kellan who was also a marine.
