Twenty

“You guys trying to keep me busy?” Stephanie DuBois said, entering Peyton’s kitchen the way she entered every room—like her hair was on fire.

And it could have been. A flaming redhead, Stephanie had a personality to match. She wore bright colors, short skirts, and, much to Peyton’s admiration, had been held in Contempt of Court twice recently.

She swung her briefcase onto the island like it were a rucksack.

“I mean, I like billable hours as much as the next lawyer, but it’s almost nine o’clock.”

Hewitt said, “Got to pay for that BMW somehow.”

“No,” Stephanie said, “that’s my ex-husband’s problem. I made sure of that.”

“First or second ex?” Peyton said.

“Second. First covered my ski house at Sugarloaf.”

“If I didn’t know better,” Hewitt said, “I’d think you represented my ex-wife.”

“If I had”—Stephanie grinned—“you’d be living in a cardboard box, agent.”

“You’re a real princess,” Hewitt said. “Want a beer?”

“Coffee. But don’t brew a pot on my account.”

“It’s a Keurig,” Peyton said. “Want Starbucks?”

“Why can’t all law-enforcement officials be like you, Peyton?”

“I ask myself that every time I attend a boring meeting.” She moved to the coffee maker.

“Excuse me,” Hewitt said.

“Except, of course, your meetings, Mike. They’re never boring.” Stephanie laughed, and Peyton smiled.

“Hey,” Hewitt said, “I thought you were having dinner with Pete Dye.”

“Already did,” she said.

Peyton put a coffee cup beneath the dispenser. She saw Hewitt look at the wall clock. Yes, the dinner had ended with the main course. Yes, Pete had declined dessert. And, yes, neither she nor Pete had wanted to chat over coffee.

“This must be important if you left your date early,” Stephanie said.

“The date was over,” Peyton said curtly.

“Ouch,” Stephanie said. “Sorry.”

Peyton shook her head. Coffee made, she added a splash of cream and set the Red Sox mug in front of Stephanie. All three sat at the kitchen island.

Briefcase open, Stephanie’s iPad was before her. “Tommy in bed?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Lois had departed since she got home early.

“Tell Stephanie what we have,” Hewitt said. He had not asked where Tommy was.

Peyton explained her recent visit to Garrett High School.

When Peyton had finished, Stephanie looked up from her notes. “This kid, Matt Kingston, is seventeen?”

Peyton nodded.

“That’s confirmed? He can’t be tried as an adult?”

“We just met with a teacher,” Hewitt said, “but we’ll get his birth record.”

Stephanie nodded. “So Matt Kingston goes out to jack deer on the St. Pierre property, but before he sees a deer, he hears voices and a gunshot. And all of this is on the night Simon Pink is murdered with Freddy St. Pierre’s gun?”

“Yeah,” Hewitt said, “and the timeline matches up.”

Peyton sprayed the granite counter top with glass cleaner and wiped it down with a paper towel. She’d splurged on the granite, and her mother, God love her, left crumbs everywhere.

“Deer-jacking won’t look very good,” Peyton said and threw the paper towel away.

Stephanie leaned forward, elbows resting on the island, holding her coffee cup with both hands. An Alex and Ani bracelet dangled from her wrist. “If we go forward with the prosecution of St. Pierre,” she said, “this kid will have to take the stand. And, no, confessing to attempted deer-jacking will not serve him well. And if I were cross-examining him, I’d make a big stink about him being at the murder scene with a weapon of his own.”

“But Simon Pink was shot with a handgun,” Hewitt said.

“That isn’t the point. The kid was there. He had a gun. Half the time, criminal prosecution is about muddying the waters, and the deer rifle is a great distraction. If he can shoot a rifle, he could’ve fired a handgun. That might be enough to plant reasonable doubt.”

“Jesus,” Hewitt said, “you really did work for my wife, didn’t you?”

“Something else,” Stephanie said, “will certainly be brought up: Why didn’t the kid call the cops that night? He waited almost a week, until he happened to see Peyton.”

“He said all he knows is he heard a gunshot,” Peyton said. “Then he saw the story of the murder on the TV news. Thought about it for several days. Then I was walking by …” She shrugged. “That’s what he told me this afternoon. He’s scared and confused.”

“Sure. All of that’s fine and good. But you see where I’m going with this. He hears what he hears, then just slips off? Went back to his truck and drove home? That isn’t exactly helping his credibility.”

“Said he read about the fire in the morning,” Peyton said. “Mentioned it to some kids who, at first, told him not to say a thing since deer-jacking is illegal. But then, after news of the murder broke, he had second thoughts.”

“And you were in the right place at the right time?”

“You don’t believe it?” Peyton said. “This kid sat in my truck and told me all of this. He’s sincere.”

“I get paid to play devil’s advocate,” Stephanie said. “Here’s the bottom line: I don’t think this is enough to put Freddy St. Pierre away. Maybe we’d use Matt Kingston to corroborate witness testimony. But I think if we face a good defense team, this kid could eyewitness himself right into a juvenile center for at least a few months.”

When Hewitt and Stephanie left, Peyton sat alone in her den with a sealed envelope Tommy brought from school.

The windows were blackened mirrors now. The light cast from her desk lamp turned her glass of merlot a shade of magenta. She rolled up the long sleeves of her University of Maine sweatshirt and skimmed the report once, quickly. Then, slowly, she reread the results.

“Mom, what does it say?”

She looked up. Tommy was in the doorway.

“It’s almost eleven o’clock, sweetie. You shouldn’t still be awake.”

“Does it say why it takes me longer than everyone else?”

There was a desperate, pleading look in his eyes that she’d not seen there before. He wanted—needed—an answer to this question.

The report was nearly twenty pages long, had been completed by Dr. Michael Thompson, an educational consultant, and deemed Tommy to have above-average intelligence. The final diagnosis explained a lot.

“Come here, sweetie.”

He came closer, and she lifted her ten-year-old onto her lap like he was three again.

“Do you know what dyslexia is?”