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loneliness?
    Thank God it was only a week. Meanwhile, if he really needed a reminder of his son’s presence, he needed only to look around the family room. As Brandon crossed to the kitchen, it took real effort not to step on some bit of mess that Scott had left behind: two pairs of socks that he could see, three pairs of shoes and a week’s worth of dishes and glasses. For all their strength and bonding, Team Bachelor shared not a whit of housekeeping talent. Brandon was a borderline slob in his own right, but Scott made Oscar Madison look like Martha Stewart. The boy was a mess-making machine, and totally oblivious to it.
    Of course, Brandon could have just cleaned it all up himself, but what was the point in that? Team Bachelor succeeded because of their commitment to cooperative independence. Long-term survival depended on each pulling his own weight. As it was, Scott’s vision of the universe held himself at the center of everything, with all the world’s resources focused solely on his personal needs. The less Brandon did to promote the fantasy, the better.
    He put the mail on the counter under the telephone, noting with a sigh the blinking red 8 on the answering machine. Knowing that none of the messages were for him, he pushed the button and went about the business of nuking himself a Lean Cuisine. Chicken Teriyaki. What the hell, maybe he’d nuke two.
    The first message featured Scott’s just-a-friend-not-a-girlfriend-even-though-I-spend-my-life-on-the-phone-with-her buddy, Rachel. She wanted to make sure that he had a nice trip, and that he knew she was thinking about him. Oh, and she really hoped that he’d use the trip as a means to learn to get along with Sherry.
    The second message was from one of Scott’s band buddies at Robinson High School announcing a change in the rehearsal schedule.
    Three and four were more words of encouragement from Rachel, first apologizing for meddling in Scott’s relationship with his mother, because she knew how tough a time he had with that sometimes, chased fifteen minutes later by a double-reversal, in which she apologized for apologizing.
    Brandon had to laugh. That girl could burn up more tape than a recording studio.
    The final four messages were all hang-ups, the time stamps for which were fifteen minutes apart.
    How odd. Punching the time into the microwave, Brandon tossed the empty box into the trash compactor, then scrolled through the caller ID to see that the hang-ups were all from the same number—the Fairfax County Police Department. He scowled.
    The digital countdown on the microwave had just cleared 2:00 when Brandon picked up the phone to call the number back. He’d pressed only the first two digits when someone mistook the knocker on the front door for a battering ram, hammering hard enough to make Brandon jump out of his shoes.
    â€œI have a doorbell, you moron,” he muttered, replacing the receiver on its hook and heading toward the foyer. He’d made it halfway when they hammered on the door again. “I’m coming!” Brandon shouted. “Jesus, do you think I missed it the first time?”
    A quick look out the peephole revealed the image of a freezing cop, the fur collar on his nylon jacket nearly touching the furry ear flaps of his Elmer Fudd hat. Brandon pulled open the door.
    Actually, there were two men out there. The one he hadn’t seen through the peephole was a priest of some sort. Or maybe a chaplain. He wore a clerical collar. Brandon felt all the air rush out of his lungs.
    â€œMr. O’Toole?” the police officer asked.
    Brandon nodded. “Yes. Brandon O’Toole. That’s me. What’s wrong?”
    â€œI’m Officer Hoptman. This is Father Scannell.” With an uneasy glance, the cop deferred the rest to the priest, who inquired, “May we come in?”
    Brandon quickly stepped out of the way, ushering them into the foyer. “Tell me what’s