Driving.
Out of the city onto Inner-State 787, north toward the city of Cohoes. The smartphone in my pocket vibrates. Reaching into my jacket, I pull it out. It’s my mom again. Heart beats, pulse rises. Good Steve whispers into my ear, Get it. Be a good son. Bad Steve tells me to put the phone away. Mom is being well cared for. I go with Bad Steve and once more, hate myself for it.
Get it. Be a good son. Mom is being well cared for. I need to divert my attention, shift my focus back on the dead.
I say, “Shouldn’t we be visiting Lisa’s apartment in Troy, Miller? Interviewing neighbors and such? Cross referencing our data with the Troy PD? What’s the mortician gonna tell us?”
“Slow down with the twenty questions,” Miller says from behind the wheel. “We’ll get to that soon enough. Besid
