Wayward Son

Chapter 8

Sam and Ruthie waited behind Dean as he rang the doorbell of the narrow, two-story town home on a quiet side street in Boise. Sam noticed Ruthie fidgeting with her bag—she must be nervous to see yet another face from the past. On their way over, she'd told them Amy had been one of the few nurses who hadn't taken sides when everything blew up between her and Monica. Ruthie had been surprised, since Amy and Monica were close. She suspected she had Brandon to thank.

The deadbolt clicked, and the door swung open to reveal a petite strawberry blonde with delicate, doll-like features and soft brown eyes. She wore the pale, puffy-eyed look of a woman who'd spent days crying herself to sleep. A dull ache throbbed in Sam's chest.

Dean nodded at Amy in greeting. "Mrs. Reeves, I'm Agent Hetfield—"

"Ruthie!" Amy flung herself across the porch and threw her arms around Ruthie's neck. "What are you doing here? You disappeared! Brandon was so worried..." She pulled back, and her eyes filled with tears. She buried her face in her hands, and began shaking.

Ruthie put a comforting arm around the smaller woman. "I'm so sorry, Amy. Let's go inside, okay?" She steered her back through the doorway. Sam and Dean followed. Ruthie sat Amy down on a love seat in the modern living room, while Sam and Dean took the adjacent sofa. Amy was still sniffling, her face hidden behind her hand. Sam spotted a kleenex box on a side table and handed a tissue to Ruthie, who passed it to the crying woman.

Amy mopped her nose, and took a deep, shaky breath. "I'm sorry," she said. "That happens a lot lately."

Her grief, so fresh and raw, sharpened the echoing ache around Sam's heart. "It's okay," he told her. "No need to apologize. We're very sorry for your loss." He gestured at himself. "I'm Dr. Ulrich, with the CDC."

Before he could introduce Dean, she reached out and put her little hand on his. "Thank you so much for coming, Doctor. It means a lot, you coming all the way from Atlanta to find out what happened to Brandon."

An unexpected pang of guilt shot through Sam's chest. He was lying to this poor woman. Her sincere, fragile smile made the back of his throat go tight. He cleared it. "Of course." He gestured to Dean. "Uh, that's Agent Hetfield, with the FBI, who you spoke with earlier. And you already know Ruthie."

"I'm with the CDC now," Ruthie told her before she could ask. "Special liaison to the FBI."

Amy regarded her with wonder. "Wow, Ruthie. That's great. I'm really happy for you." Then she looked at Dean, eyebrows squeezing together. "But why is the FBI involved? Do you...do you think someone killed Brandon?" Her eyes darted to Sam. "With some sort of weaponized virus or something?"

Dean shook his head. "We're only following leads right now, ma'am."

Sam leaned forward. "Mrs. Reeves—"

"Actually, I kept my maiden name. Spencer. But please, call me Amy."

Dean took out his notepad and jotted something down.

"Amy," Sam went on in his gentlest voice, "we're here to learn everything we can about out what happened to your husband. What can you tell us about the past few weeks, or even months? Did he have any symptoms of discomfort, any pain? Did he complain of any health-related issues?"

Her eyes welled up and she dabbed at them with the crumpled kleenex. "Yes. He was always tired. He complained constantly about headaches, and he was always drinking water." Her voice quavered. "I thought he'd just caught some bug; I didn't know..."

"How could you?" Ruthie said, squeezing her hand.

"About when would you say he began having those symptoms?" Sam prompted.