But Patricia prevailed. Five minutes later, he followed her into the living room. He wore jeans, ankle-high military-style boots, a blue sweatshirt with gold figures on it that looked like some sort of military ranger group’s, and a blue baseball cap worn backward. “Robert, you know Sheriff Metzger and Mrs. Fletcher,” Patricia said. His response was to glare at us. Mort said, “Thought you wouldn’t mind coming down with me to town, Robert. You know, just to have a little chat about what happened to your dad.” Robert looked at his mother, who smiled demurely and nodded. “Won’t take very long,” Mort added. “Of course, if you’d rather not, we can talk here.” “About Jake Walther?” Robert asked. Mort looked at me before saying, “Sure. We can talk about Jake. Talk about anything you’d like.” “I’m not being arrested or anything, am I?” Robert asked. “I didn’t do anything. Jake shot my father.” Mort’s chuckle was forced. “Of course you’re not being arrested for anything, Bob.
