The Mercer Lawn Reversal

Statements took the rest of the afternoon and bled into evening.

Andre gave his in the old library because Detective Talbot thought the child should be away from the lawn. The room smelled of leather, smoke, and expensive neglect. Rain tapped the tall windows while he sat on the edge of a chair made for adults.

Talbot did not soften her questions, but she asked them carefully.

Andre answered as best he could.

Yes, he had seen Liana at the hangar.

Yes, he knew what the taped block looked like because his father had shown him training images once, telling him that knowing danger was sometimes the only shield ordinary people got.

Yes, he had remained on the estate because Gideon needed help and because the money he earned bought medicine for his mother’s cough.

No, he had not trusted the security team.

At that answer, Talbot’s pen paused.

“Why not?” she asked.

Andre looked at the rain on the window. “Because when my dad died, everybody important said ‘accident’ before the blood dried.”

That was the first time his own voice made him sound younger than thirteen.

Later, when Talbot stepped out to speak with the bomb squad, Harold remained in the doorway. He had come to hear the statement. He stayed because he did not know how to leave.

Andre did not look at him.

Harold saw the child’s split eyebrow scar, the mud dried at his jaw, the stubborn set of his shoulders. He saw the cost of being brave too early.

“I remember your father,” Harold said.

Andre’s fingers tightened around the brass wrench. “Not enough.”

The words were quiet.

True.

Harold accepted the wound of them. “No,” he said. “Not enough.”

There was no excuse strong enough to survive the room.

Andre finally looked at him then. “He said you were decent when you listened.”

Harold almost laughed at the cruelty of being measured against the better version of himself.

“He was kinder than I earned,” Harold said.

Andre nodded once. He had no need to comfort the man.

A few minutes later, Naomi Brooks arrived.

Gideon had called her from town.

She came in wearing a thin coat over a grocery-uniform blouse, her body smaller than illness should have allowed, her eyes already wet before she found her son. Andre stood so fast the chair scraped the floor.

Naomi crossed the room and took his face in both hands. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head.

Then her gaze moved past him and found Harold.

She did not curtsy. She did not lower her eyes. Exhaustion had burned those lessons out of her long ago.

“You finally read his letter,” she said.

Harold had no answer worth giving.