Page 87 of Wicked Brutal

“She found the passport stamps.”

“Fuck.”

“They fought about that too.”

Ryan types it. I keep thinking. Then something old surfaces. “Victor came to the lake once.”

Ryan’s eyes snap up. “When?”

“I was fifteen. Maybe sixteen.”

“You knew him already?”

“I knew his name. He and Dad knew each other.” That bothers him. I can see it — the math running behind his eyes, fifteen, sixteen, the arrangement already two, three years old by then.

“What happened?”

“They sat outside drinking. Mom made me take Tobias down to the water.”

“Could you hear them?”

I close my eyes. Summer heat. Tobias in that bright orange life jacket Mom used to make him wear. Rocks hitting the water. Men’s voices above us. “Montreal.”

Ryan starts typing. “What about it?”

“Victor said it was getting expensive.”

“Anything else?”

“Dad said it was still cleaner than New York.”

“Cleaner how?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

I think harder. Then— “Customs.”

His fingers stop. “What?”

“Victor asked if Dad still had someone at customs.”

Ryan looks at me. “What did Roman say?”

I search for it. Nothing. “I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay.”

“I remember Victor asking.”

“Then that’s what we write down. Nothing more.” He types exactly that. No assumptions. No dramatic conclusion. Just what I heard. When he finishes, he stares at the growing list. Then at me. “I’ve been looking at your dad from the outside this entire time.”

“Okay.”

“Public records. Names I find attached to him. Connections. Whatever I can get.” I nod. “And meanwhile, Roman has spent years talking in front of you because he doesn’t think anything he says will stick in a way that matters.”

“It sticks.”