Keller explained. They were in a lonely Main Street diner, a few suspicious regulars bellied up to the bar, waxing poetic about the cold. A waitress whisked by and refilled their drinks, hovered there for a moment. “Studying on a Friday night?” she asked. Alex looked up at the woman. Said, “If we don’t finish this lesson, then a man in prison for murder is going to be really disappointed with us.” The waitress shook her head disapprovingly. Then she was gone and Alex turned back to Keller. They had come from Lydia Rutherford’s to the diner, hunger having been temporarily eclipsed by the shocking image of a Charlie Rutherford who was identical to the photo Keller had received. Someone had been pointing them toward Charlie even then. “It’s him, Alex,” Keller had said breathlessly as she drove them away from the house. “Holyfuckingcrap it’s him.” Now they ate burnt cheeseburgers and sucked at chocolate milkshakes, and Keller reached into his pack and removed a book.
