“We don’t know that. Mama-the-girlfriend could’ve left years before the murders.”
“But it makes sense.”
“No, it makes coincidence. We need to find out when the girlfriend left before we start jumping to conclusions.”
“You’re excited about it.” Tobias glanced pointedly at Sullivan’s bouncing foot.
“I always fidget,” Sullivan said defensively, going still. “My mother called me the patron saint of perpetual motion. And if I am excited—which I’m not—it’s only because I like outlandish theories. But since I have more than five brain cells, I’m aware that the outlandish theories often turn out to be bull. It’s Occam’s razor. ‘When you have two competing theories that make exactly the same predictions—’”
Tobias finished with him, “‘—the simpler one is the better.’”
Sullivan stared at him.
“You’re not the only person on the planet who reads, you know.”
“Sometimes I wonder. But okay. Good. It’s good. That you read, I mean.”
Tobias shrugged that off. If Sullivan wanted to be weird, let him. “But you know what’s really strange? That the wannabe crime lord’s description of Lena didn’t match what she really looked like.”
“It’s hard to mix up voluptuous sexpot and skinny waif,” Sullivan agreed.
“It’s almost like he didn’t get what he was expecting.” Tobias nodded when Sullivan gestured to the remains of his sandwich, sliding his plate over so Sullivan could finish it. “You know what that sounds like, right?”
“That’s gotta be a movie cliché or something, though.” Sullivan opened his laptop and entered the password, then paused, looking back and forth between Tobias’s leftover sandwich and his laptop before pushing the computer toward Tobias. “No one really gets a Russian mail-order bride.”
“Of course not.” Tobias handed Sullivan a napkin, then opened a browser window for a new search. “That’s not a thing people do.”
After half an hour of badly translated sleazy websites advertising hot foreign brides and another half hour on sites working to end human trafficking, it was clear that yes, mail-order brides were very much something that people did, and in far more messed-up ways than Tobias had expected.
“Some of these scenarios are basically sex slavery. This girl was rescued from a basement where she was kept chained up for months.” Tobias’s sandwich sat heavy as stone in his stomach. Some of these girls were younger than Mirlande. His fingers jerked toward his phone instinctively before he reminded himself not to be ridiculous—his sisters, at least, were safe.
“Ugh, don’t read that next case study.” Sullivan closed his eyes and put his head down on the table so that his words were muffled partly by the wood. “I’m going to take a moment to be disgusted by both my gender and my species.”
Tobias couldn’t look at the pictures anymore. He got up, swallowing hard against the urge to be sick and collecting their lunch trash. “I’ll take care of this,” he muttered, and headed in the likely direction of the kitchen.
He had to pick his way through a hallway filled with debris and paint cans and a haphazard stack of half-rotted boards, but Sullivan’s kitchen, like the family room, was farther along. He was greeted by bright yellow and white tile, a wall of gutted cabinetry, expensive stainless-steel appliances, and a big six-burner stove that his mother would kill for, but no visible trash can. As he searched in all the reasonable places, he tried to focus on the case. He called, “You think that’s how Lena came to this country? Made a deal for a husband and a fresh start and ended up a prisoner in some monster’s house?”
“Seems like a pretty common situation.” Sullivan appeared in the doorway, his gaze thoughtful on Tobias, his soda cup dangling from one hand. “No wonder becoming a crime lady looked like a viable option. Most of these women aren’t here legally, and even if they are, they’re told horrible things about the police to keep them from trying to get help—and coming from a place like Russia, you’re probably inclined to believe the stories. Most of the men they’re given to never marry them or arrange for green cards like they claim they will, so deportation is another threat that can be used. It’s not like you can learn the language or get job skills if you’re tied up in a bedroom for months. You know, I read this thing a while back about how education in foreign countries doesn’t always transfer to the States because we have this attitude here that our learning institutions are better than the ones in other countries even though it’s frequently the other way around, especially in K-12—”
Tobias had run out of cabinets to search now, and he kicked the one under the sink closed. “Where on earth is your trash can?”
“—so that immigrants have to... Hmm?” Sullivan blinked. “Oh, it’s in the bathroom.”
Tobias aimed an exasperated look at him but didn’t say anything, only picking his way back through boards and debris to find the bathroom. Sullivan pointed him toward a secluded hallway, at the end of which was a closed door which, when Tobias pushed it open, fell off its hinges and crashed into him, knocking him to the floor and startling the hell out of him in the process.
“What the—” Tobias cried, shoving the door away as Sullivan burst into laughter at the mouth of the corridor. “Why did you let me do that?”
Sullivan only laughed harder.
Tobias climbed to his feet, telling himself to calm down. He wasn’t hurt, and it wasn’t rational to expect Sullivan to be nice. Tobias was blackmailing him—Sullivan’s little rebellions were almost predictable, given the context, and as far as pranks went, this was downright harmless. But his breath was strangling in his throat, much as it had the other day back at home. He was so tired and his eyes had been scraped with sandpaper and he was surrounded by a chaotic mess and the reins holding his temper in check were slipping through his fingers. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, but do you seriously not have a kitchen trash can?”
Sullivan’s
