“I’ll…uh…I’ll just be a minute,” he said after he let us in and switched on the light.
“No rush.”
He left the bag from B. Smith on the breakfast bar and disappeared through a door that must have opened into his bedroom. If I went into that room with him, I knew I’d have him on his bed, even if Spike was within hearing distance.
I turned my attention to the living room. There wasn’t much in it—a loveseat opposite a TV onan inexpensive entertainment stand, an end table with some framed photos on it.
“Who’re these, Wills?” I called.
“Who?”
“The pictures.”
“Oh. Family.”
There was a couple with their arms around a younger Wills, who was wearing a cap and gown. The woman was too young to be his mother, but the man had to be his father. I saw something of Willsin him.