Page 57 of Forever Dead

Other people called it messy. His therapist had used the phrase disorganized living environment during one home visit. Curtis thought that made it sound worse than it was.

He knew where everything was.

The newspapers beside the couch were there because he had not finished with them. The clothes on the floor were mostly clean. Empty food cartons occupied one end of the kitchen counter because the trash collection was not until Friday. A stack of old magazines had become a useful place to put the television remote when he was finished with it.

Nothing was lost.

Nothing of any importance, at least.

Curtis sat in the armchair beside the window. The sheriff remained standing near the center of the room.

That stressed him.

A man standing over you controlled the conversation before either person said anything.

Curtis leaned back and tried to appear comfortable.

The sheriff looked around once, taking in the room without commenting.

“Do you know why I’m here?” Connor asked.

Curtis rubbed both palms against his jeans.

“Look, Sheriff, I did borrow my neighbor’s dirt bike.”

The sheriff’s eyebrows lifted.

“It was stupid,” Curtis continued. “But I put it back. Now, that ain’t enough to put me in cuffs.”

“No,” Connor said. “I’m not here about a dirt bike.”

Curtis waited.

“Your old teacher, Eleanor Marsh, is dead.”

For several seconds, Curtis said nothing.

The news pressed somewhere beneath his ribs in a place he had not expected.

“Miss Marsh?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?” Curtis asked.

“Someone murdered her.”

Curtis lowered his gaze.

Miss Marsh.

He remembered her standing in front of a classroom with both hands resting on a desk. Her voice. The way she had said his name when she wanted him to stop whatever he was doing without embarrassing him in front of everybody.

Curtis had hated that voice once.

Maybe because it had worked.

“How?” he asked.