Page 116 of Fire and Bones

Deery’s face never changed.

“I’m a detective with the—”

“Yes, sir. We saw your badge.”

“Am I speaking to Roy Stoll?”

“You are, indeed. And this is my brother—”

“—Ronan Stoll.” Hawaiian shirt.

“What in hell could the police possibly want—”

“—with us?”

They were twins. I got it. But their manner of finishing each other’s sentences was somewhat disconcerting.

“Perhaps this matter is best handled inside,” Deery suggested, sotto voce.

“My brother and I have nothing—”

“—to hide.”

“Your neighbors. Your choice.”

A quick sideways glance, then Roy stepped back. Brushing past Ronan, my nose took in a tsunami of something relying heavily on sage.

The brothers led us down a short hall, then left into a somewhat feminine version of a man cave. Faux cowhide rug. Faux maroon leather sofa. Dual recliners facing a billion-inch flat-screen TV.

A laminate bar ran the room’s rear wall, looking like a piece straight off an Amazon truck. A Bud Light sign hung above it, buzzing softly. A mini fridge sat behind it. Four matching stools bellied up to its front, each outfitted with a lavender vinyl seat.

“Por favor.” Roy arced a hand toward the couch.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Ronan added.

Deery and I circled a coffee table—a hippo supporting a tinted glass oval on its back—to sit where directed.

Ronan settled into a recliner and tucked one scarecrow leg under his bum.

“Nice place,” I lied.

“It’s home.” Ronan smiled broadly. Same undersized dentition.

Deery’s eyes met mine, narrowed in warning.

I nodded, acknowledging my earlier commitment to total silence.

Roy remained standing, arms crossed on his chest.

“Please sit down, sir,” Deery said.

“I’m happ—”

“Sit. Down.” Steely.

“Do you have a warrant, Detective Deery?”

“Do I need a warrant, Mr. Stoll?”