As a boy, I'd wake up long before sunrise. Without exchanging a word, my foster father and I would shuck on our coats and boots, and trudge onto the ranch. We'd use flashlights to illuminate our path. Sometimes, we'd sift through mud. Other times, it was overgrown fields or thick snow. If it was cold—which it often was in rural Connecticut—the horses would be burrowed under their blankets.
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Alaric and I would toss a coin to decide who'd be shoveling shit. While one of us tended to the feces, the other prepped grain and supplements. We'd clean the stalls, and lay fresh hay. We'd swap the horses' blankets, pat their muzzles, then stomp back to the house, leaving our boots on the porch.
Alaric would start a pot of coffee and read the paper while I cooked breakfast. He hated whenever I went off script—turkey bacon, or bell peppers in the scramble. But the old man ate it anyway, grumbling as he chewed.
We'd have our meal at the small dining table in the kitchen, watching the sun rise in the east. We'd finish, and I'd remain seated, waiting for the story. My foster father would open his mouth, and I'd listen intently. The tales aren't important anymore. They weren't the point back then, either.
"Spot my lies, Brookie," Alaric would demand. "Listen to the inflection in my speech. Watch my body language. Analyze my face."
Alaric Haas was the esteemed professor of forensic psychology at Yale University. He devoted a portion of his life to interviewing high-profile criminals—drug lords, terrorists, serial killers, family annihilators. He was a master at identifying evasive techniques. He could sniff a lie from a mile away. He hated his subjects on a personal level, but respected them on a professional one.
We bonded through our work on the ranch, but I loved my foster father because of our time at the breakfast table. He devoted his brain to me. He wanted to teach me a skill I could carry after he was gone—something beyond shoveling manure.
Alaric and Rachel Haas were in their early sixties when I was delivered to their doorstep at the age of four. I was their last placement, and they were certain I'd be adopted soon. They didn't want to say goodbye, but they were prepared for it. I was young. I was cute and well-mannered.
The Department of Children and Families tried to stick me with a permanent, youthful family. During the trial phases, my would-be-adoptive parents soon learned they couldn't handle me. I was a tyrant—damaged, uncontrollable, volatile. I'd returned to the Haas's with a relieved smile, and they'd welcome me home. After a few failed placements, DCFS stopped trying to move me, and I was allowed to live with my chosen family.
"What were my lies, Brookie?" Alaric asks one morning.
"You didn't drive east, and the sun wasn't setting. You looked over my shoulder while you said that," I inform him. "Your left eyebrow rose a millimeter when you said the gas station was empty, so I believe there was at least one other car at the pumps."
