x x x
When we get back in town, Tricia drives past our house, and even though I’m exhausted and about to dissolve into a million pieces, I let her take me where she’s taking me.
“I gotta get to work,” she says, pulling into the Garcias’ driveway. “I’ll see you later.”
“Thank you,” I say. I hug her across the stick shift. Then I grab my file on Meg, Bradford, and Final Solution, and head toward the front door.
Scottie opens up.
“Hey, Runtmeyer,” I say softly.
“Hi, Cody,” he says, and he seems embarrassed, or maybe he’s pleased, by the return of this nickname. “It’s Cody,” he calls into the house.
Sue comes out, wiping her hands on an apron. “Cody! You finally came for dinner. Can I make you a plate?”
“Maybe later. I need to talk to you about something.”
Her expression falters. “Come in,” she says. “Joe,” she calls. “Cody’s here. Scottie, go play upstairs.”
Scottie gives me a look, and I shrug.
Joe and Sue go into the darkened dining room, which has a fancy wood table that we used to eat family dinners around. Now it is piled with papers and other signs of disuse. “What is it, Cody?” Joe asks.
“There’s some things I need to tell you, about Meg. About her death.”
They both nod, reach for each other’s hands.
“I know she killed herself. I’m not saying she didn’t. But you need to know that she was involved with this group . . .” I begin. “It calls itself a suicide support group, but it’s the kind of support that encourages people to kill themselves, and I think that’s why she did it.”
I watch their faces, awaiting their horror, but they are kind, expectant, waiting for me to continue. And it hits me: this is old news.
“You know?”
“We know,” Sue says quietly. “It was in the police report.”
“It was?”
Sue nods. “They said it explained how she got that poison. It’s common with those groups.”
“The Final Solution.” Joe practically spits the words. “That’s what the Nazis called the Holocaust. Meg knew that. I can’t believe she’d fall into a group that used that as its name.”
“Joe.” Sue puts her hand on his arm.
“So the police found the encrypted files? They know about Bradford?” I’m confused. Bradford didn’t seem to know anything about Meg’s death.
Now Joe and Sue look confused, too. “What files?”
“On Meg’s computer. In her trash.”
“I don’t know about that,” Sue says. “They just said they found evidence that Meg was involved with this group from her Internet searches.”
“Who’s Bradford?” Joe asks.
“Bradford Smith,” I say.
They look at me blankly.
“He’s the one, from the boards. Wait, I thought you said the police knew about this.”