Aunt Patsy was his father's younger sister, and Kyle was her only son, twenty-six years old and constructed mostly of elbows and nervous energy. Growing up, Kyle had been the kid who followed Wade everywhere, who wanted to ride on his handlebars and copy his haircut and fish off whatever dock Wade was fishing off. Somewhere in high school that had stopped. Somewhere after high school there had been a back injury on a supply boat, and pills for the back, and then pills for no reason anyone wanted to say out loud, and then a year of Patsy not talking about Kyle at all, and then a program in Mobile, and then this spring, a job as a dockhand at Vance Marina, which everyone in the family referred to with the careful brightness people use for a cast on a broken leg. He's doing so good.
He did seem to be doing good. He came through the back door behind his mother with a sweating twelve-pack of root beer and a sweet potato pie that Patsy had clearly made, and he punched Wade on the shoulder in the old way, and he was talking before he got his cap off.
"Officer Pruitt. The legend. Man, the whole marina's talking about you."
"Great."
"No, it'sā" Kyle grinned, sat, bounced his knee under the table. "It's not bad. Mr. Vance was cussing up a storm because he thought you had it solved. He was out on the dock at seven o'clock telling everybody they'd caught the guy, and then about eight he gets this phone call and goes real quiet. I thought he was gonna throw his phone in the water."
"Kyle," said Aunt Patsy.
"What? I'm just saying." Kyle reached for the cornbread. "It was a reasonable thing. White skiff, ninety on the back. Coulda been anybody's."
"Couldn't have been Mr. Tran's," said Carol Pruitt from the stove.
"Well, no, I mean, obviously not, now." Kyle laughed. It was a quick laugh, an elbow of a laugh, and Wade noticed it the way you notice a car that brakes a little too hard in front of you. "So what happens now? You got any other leads? Like, actual leads?"
"Can't talk about it."
"Come on. It's me."
"It's an open investigation."
"Okay, Officer." Kyle saluted with the cornbread. "Okay." The knee kept bouncing.
They ate. Patsy talked about her hip and about the price of shrimp at the dock, which was too low, and about the Blessing of the Fleet, which was in twelve days and for which, apparently, the Methodist women were feuding with the Catholic women over the matter of folding chairs. Wade's mother asked Kyle about his program, gently, and Kyle said ninety-one days, and they all clapped, and Kyle turned red and looked at his plate in a way that made Wade's chest hurt a little. After supper, Kyle and Wade carried the plates to the sink, and Kyle washed while Wade dried, the way they had done as boys in this exact kitchen.