STUFFED (The Slate Brothers 2)

11

I hurry to Devin’s door that evening, wearing heels and a short skirt— because if I can get through this meeting fast, I can be over to Carson’s before ten o’clock. Maybe even before nine o’clock, if I can keep Dickhead Devin (current reporter nickname for him) from launching into one of his know-it-all monologues. I ring the doorbell and step back, listening to the sound of Devin’s feet on the floor.

When he answers the door, I’m not particularly surprised to see he’s wearing what he normally wears to work— a collared shirt and khakis. I strongly suspect he doesn’t wear anything but this ensemble, not even to sleep in. He looks at me for a minute, then makes a face.

“What are you wearing that for?” he asks.

“I told you. I have plans tonight,” I say.

Devin shrugs. “Whatever you say. You don’t usually dress like those desperate girls on Broad Street, is all. You look good though.”

“Can I come in?” I ask impatiently. Devin shrugs a second time and steps back, allowing me into his apartment. It’s small and beige and totally undecorated, like it’s more of a crash pad than a place someone actually lives. He’s got the television turned on to a local news station, and his laptop open with a million tabs pulled up on his browser. As I near it, I can see they’re all articles about Dennis Slate.

“Have a seat,” he says, sitting down on the end of the couch and motioning for me to do the same. It’s one of those couches where you sink down farther than you expect, and I nearly flash him when my skirt hikes up from the drop. Thankfully, Devin is too preoccupied with arranging his computer on his lap to notice— I hope, anyway.

“Alright. Let’s hear what you’ve got,” he says, looking up at me.

“I’m thinking that a good angle might be to talk about his relationship with his brothers,” I say, a rehearsed line. It’s not the story he wants, but I think it just might be the story I can sell him on. “So, he’s got these two brothers, right? Sebastian and Tyson. Sebastian is the responsible one, Tyson isn’t really speaking to the rest of the family because of the drama with their dad. What if we made it a story about Carson being the one stuck in the middle of it all? You know, middle kid, family getting torn apart— a real personal story.”

Devin has been typing notes on this as I speak; when I pause, he looks up at me. “That’s it?”

“Yeah. That’s a great story!” I say. “Look, I’ve got some great quotes and everything from a few interviews.” I brandish my phone at him, but he doesn’t move to take it.

“You’ve spent weeks with this guy, and that’s all you have? A story about it being hard to be the middle kid when your dad offs his mistress? Carson is the key to the whole damn case, Astrid,” Devin says, looking bewildered that I’ve even brought this story idea to his door.

I lick my lips and try to calm the anger brewing around my heart. “Devin, why would he tell a reporter anything new he hasn’t told the police? I know we were wanting to do a more investigative type piece, but I don’t think an interview with Carson is going to make it happen.”

“Then what the hell are you doing with him all the time? Just hanging out? Taking a break from the newsroom?” Devin asks, shaking his head. He shuts his laptop a little too hard. “I thought you were really digging into him.”

“He’s a legit nice guy. He’s worried about his dad. He wishes his relationship with his brothers was better.”

Devin scoffs. “Well, fantastic— it sounds like we’ve got all the material we need to write Carson Slate an amazing Tinder profile.”

“That’s not fair. There’s not a story here,” I say.

“There is, though, that’s the thing,” Devin says, shaking his head. He gives me a wary, annoyed look, then opens his laptop back up. “I had some of my assistants do some research on Dennis Slate’s case and the whole “we were getting dinner together” alibi. There’s a traffic camera shot of Carson Slate driving out toward Lithia that night, but that’s basically it. By the time the alibi was needed, all the security footage from the handful of restaurants out there that actually have it was gone.”

“Okay…” I say hesitantly, and move close to Devin so I can see what he’s looking at. He’s sorting through emails, now, and finally finds the one he’s after. There’s a spreadsheet of what I realize is all the restaurants in Lithia— everything from Long John Silvers to the upscale Indian place. Beside them is their opening hours, closing hours, addresses, and links to their websites.