Chapter 8: The Question

I had the photographs in my hand when the knock came at the side door.

Kirk was already at the foot of the stairs, barefoot, pulling on a shirt.

"Don't," I said.

"I'm answering it."

"Then answer it like a landlord."

He gave me a long look and opened the door.

Sheridan stood on the step in her cream jacket with her hands clasped.

Beside her was a heavy man in a windbreaker, holding a clipboard.

He was my parole officer.

I had signed forms for him in a prison conference room, and he had not once looked me in the eye.

"Milla," Sheridan said, so softly. "I'm sorry to come like this."

"What is this?"

"You didn't answer my calls last night, and I got worried."

"I was asleep."

"Of course you were."

Her gaze moved past me up the stairs, to the open door of the room.

It rested there for a moment.

Then she smiled and turned to the man with the clipboard.

"Officer, I know this is a routine visit. I only wanted to make sure she's safe."

My parole officer looked at the garage, the stairs, and Kirk.

"Name?"

"Kirk Corliss. I own the place. She rents the room upstairs."

"Rents."

"I haven't charged her yet."

The officer wrote something down.

"Any relation to the victim in this case, Mr. Corliss?"

The garage went very quiet.

Sheridan did not look at Kirk. She was studying the tools on the wall with polite interest.

I watched his jaw.

If he lied, they would hang him with it.

If he told the truth, the officer would take me out of the garage.

"Chadwick Reece was my half-brother," Kirk said. "Same father. I use my mother's name."

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