Not much.
Enough.
“Why?”
Keller stopped several feet away.
“So I know whether you walked five blocks or five miles.”
“Four blocks.”
“What house?”
“The yellow one.”
Keller knew it.
Everybody who lived in Maple Ridge long enough knew that yellow house.
Chain-link fence.
Peeling porch columns.
Old minivan.
Usually two or three children living there.
Sometimes one.
Sometimes four.
The Henderson foster home.
Clive and Barbara Henderson.
Keller had never personally dealt with them.
But he had heard things.
Not facts.
Rumors.
Kids moved in and out.
Neighbors complained about shouting.
Police had responded twice to “family disturbances” that resulted in no charges.
Nothing concrete.
Nothing anyone could legally act on.
Keller looked at Noah’s cheek.
“That came from walking four blocks?”
Noah’s face closed.
“I fell off my bike.”
“What bike?”
Noah said nothing.
“You ride to school?”
“Sometimes.”
“What happened?”
“Fell.”
“Where?”
Noah’s jaw tightened.
“Does it matter?”
Keller heard Razer shift behind him.
The room had gone quiet.
“Yes.”
Keller said.
“It matters.”
For half a second, Noah looked twelve.
Not hard.
Not determined.
Twelve.
Then the expression disappeared.
“I’m not asking for help.”
He said.
That sentence hit Keller harder than anything else.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I want to work.”
“Why?”
Noah looked toward the floor.
“I need money.”
“For what?”
“That part’s mine.”
Keller studied him.
Fair answer.
“What kind of work you done before?”
“Cleaning.”
“Yard stuff.”
“I can use basic tools.”
“Who taught you?”
“My dad.”
“You live with your dad?”
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“Gone.”
Keller nodded once.
Then pointed toward an old couch beside the window.
“Sit.”
Noah’s shoulders tightened.
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to figure out whether there’s anything a twelve-year-old is actually allowed to do around here without getting me arrested.”
A faint flicker passed through Noah’s eyes.
Almost humor.
Almost.
“Don’t touch anything.”
Keller added.
“Especially Razer.”
Razer looked offended.
“I’m valuable.”
“You’re contagious.”
Noah sat.
Keller walked into the back office.
He did not check the garage.
He called a woman named Marisol Molina.
Molina worked in county child welfare.
She and Keller had known each other fifteen years.
Her younger brother served with Keller overseas.
He had not come home.
Keller never used that history casually.
Today he did.
“Molina.”
“Keller.”
“I need a question answered.”
“That sentence always ruins my afternoon.”
“There’s a kid in my clubhouse.”
Silence.
Then:
“How old?”
“Twelve.”
“How drunk are you?”
“I’m serious.”
“What does he want?”
“A job.”