Chapter 6 - The halfway House on Market Street
Ryan’s brother, David, paid the bail bondsman with money borrowed against his truck. He didn't offer his guest room. Instead, he drove Ryan to a low-slung brick motel on the industrial fringe of town that rented rooms by the week to construction workers and men waiting for divorces to finalize.
The room smelled of stale tobacco and the pine disinfectant used to scrub the bathtub. A single nineteen-inch television was bolted to the dresser.
"You can't call her, Ryan," David said, standing near the door, keeping his jacket on. He was two years younger, broader across the shoulders, and looked at Ryan as though he were looking at a stranger wearing his brother’s face. "The cops made that real clear. If you text her, you go back inside until trial."
"She tripped over the rug, Dave," Ryan whispered, staring at his hands on his knees. "I tried to catch her. I swear to God I tried to catch her."
David didn't answer right away. He walked to the window, pulled the metal slat aside, and looked down at the gravel parking lot where his pickup’s engine was still ticking as it cooled.
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"I saw the photos Nathan took, Ryan," David said, his voice flat, devoid of the fraternal warmth they had shared over deer hunts and Sunday football. "You didn't try to catch her. Stop saying it. Every time you say it, you make it worse for whoever has to look at you."
The door shut with a heavy click of the deadbolt. Ryan was left alone with the hum of the mini-fridge and the realization that the lie was a coat that didn't fit anymore.
