Detective Harris clicked his silver ballpoint pen once against the edge of a laminate desk.

Behind him, a large whiteboard held three neat columns of dates, times, and names written in black dry-erase marker.

“We received the lab results on the fiber sweeps late yesterday,” Harris said.

He did not look at his notes.

He looked straight at me, his eyes small and tired.

“Your brother’s truck was processed on Wednesday afternoon,” he said.

Detective Sloan stood by the whiteboard, her small black flip-book open in her left hand.

She did not look down as her pen moved across the paper.