Gil drives all the way upstate, to Malcolm's boarding school. This is one conversation the kid deserves in person, and Gil could certainly use a day out of the office.
He's been to the old, stone campus a handful of times—for plays Malcolm participated in and to watch his Medieval weaponry tournaments. What kind of school has those? The kind where half the kids have bodyguards and the teachers have more qualifications than the local college professors. Gil can't imagine ever being at home in such a place, but Malcolm has thrived there—or, at least, as near to it as was ever going to be possible.
"Come in, Detective Arroyo. I'll fetch Mr. Bright." He'd called ahead, so he's expected. No fuss, just his car in the visitor's lot and then one of those staff members in black dress shirts whom the school seems to have an endless quantity of roaming the halls.
"Thank you," he says, following the woman into the visitor's library, a low-lit, quiet, and pleasant place filled with the scent of old books and the look of old money. He sits down on a brown leather sofa, relieved that it's actually comfortable.
"Gil!" Fifteen minutes pass before the door opens again, and Gil watches Malcolm enter. He's in a dress shirt and slacks—seniors transition out of uniforms to what the school calls "business attire," but considering their student body, it's more like a men's designer runway show.
"You okay?" Malcolm gives him a quizzical look, and Gil realizes he's taken too long to greet him.
"Sorry, kid. I was thinking you look grown. I don't think about it that much, but then you come in dressed like that, and I remember you're not ten any more."
Gil is rewarded with a grin that makes Malcolm look younger than his eighteen years, but does nothing to remind Gil of his actual child self—child Malcolm had almost never smiled.
"So why are you all the way out here?" Malcolm asks, "Not that—I mean, it's good to see you, but your email didn't tell me anything." The kid sits in the black wing chair opposite the sofa, fidgeting as always.
"I told you it's good news," Gil corrects. "Didn't want you to get scared."
"You're stalling," Malcolm answers.
"You're right," Gil admits with a smile, opening his old black briefcase. "This is the best surprise I've had in a long time. Wanted to keep it going as long as I could."
Malcolm is leaning forward in his seat, watching intently as Gil takes out an innocent-looking Manila file folder.
"You remember the Wilson case?"
"Of course I do," Malcolm answers, drumming the toes of his dress shoes against the carpet.
"Well," Gil finally says, handing over a stack of paper, "we got him."
"Congrats," Malcolm says, sounding just a shade disappointed.
"That's not all, Malcolm. Give me a little more credit." It's Gil's turn to get excited. He leans forward and puts his hand on Malcolm's thin knee. "Kid, your profile was what did it."
Malcolm's blue eyes flash with surprise, and then Gil is pretty sure he sees tears. "I took what you told me—about the ripped out comics at the crime scenes being about his search for a father figure—and I passed it on like I'd thought of it. I couldn't tell them where I got it, but Lawrence made them incorporate it into the official profile. Narrowed the suspect pool and finally got us there."
"You—actually told them what I said like it was your idea?"
"Yeah, kid. I wanted to credit you, but Lawrence wouldn't have given me the time of day. I'm sorry I couldn't."
Malcom shakes his head. "No, Gil, I didn't mean it like that. I just—you trusted my profile enough to put your name on it?"
"I did," Gil answers, nodding. "I told you your skills would go beyond me one day. We may not be quite there yet, but we're close. This time, you saw something we all missed."
"What if I'd been wrong, Gil?"
"It was worth it," Gil answers. "I believed you. If we'd both been wrong, I would have taken responsibility. You know that."
"I know," Malcolm says. "It's just weird to have someone stand up for me."
Gil raises an eyebrow. "I know how apocalyptically you tend to think, but at least admit I've had your back for the past eight years. You haven't been on your own."
Malcolm smiles and shakes his head. "No, you're right, but it still surprises me."
"You might as well finally get used to it," Gil replies dryly. "I'm not planning to go anywhere."
"And," Gil continues, trying to moderate his own excitement, "there's one more thing."
"Huh?" Malcolm just stares at him, and Gil enjoys the anticipation.
"'The Forensic Review'" asked me for a piece on the case, and it's been accepted for publication later this year. The article will run as a co-author credit: Gil Arroyo and Malcolm Bright."
Malcolm is speechless, which is so rare Gil can't even remember the last time it happened, if ever. "I hope you won't mind," Gil continued, "but I had a copy sent to the department head at Harvard. Thought it might be a good introduction for you."
Malcolm nods, and there's no question now that his eyes are wet. "That—was really cool of you, Gil."
"I know it was," the cop answers with a grin, "but you really earned it, Malcolm. I'm proud of you."
"Thanks."
"No, thank you." Gil puts out his hand. "You didn't just help me; you caught a killer. You probably saved lives. Well done." Malcolm's hand meets his, and he shakes it, man to man.
Malcolm's handshake is surprisingly strong, and Gil can't help feeling like he's experiencing a preview of the future—a future in which he solves cases alongside the man Malcolm is becoming. But it's not the real future, because Malcolm is going his own way, so Gil clears his head quickly. Malcolm's future has never been his to decide. It's just that, sitting opposite the kid in a designer suit with the keenest mind he's ever known, case paperwork on both their laps, it just feels right, almost like it was meant to be.
