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My mother pursed her lips again, and I could tell from her expression that she didn’t want to concede the point, but she wasn’t sure I was wrong. Believe me, I would have preferred being wrong. But I knew better. A glance at Taavi in the seat next to me told me that he knew better, too. And neither one of us was going to tell my mother why.

I caught my dad’s eye in the mirror again, and I was grateful that even though he gave me theI know you’re keeping something to yourselflook, he didn’t ask or press.

My mom might be a lot, but my dad had been my absolute rock growing up. Because he always knew—not all the details, but the framework. He knew the first time I’d had my heart broken, the first time I’d been kissed, and the fact that I’d struggled to tell him I was gay.

He’d just looked at me, standing there in his office doorway, terrified, and said, “I know, Val.” And then he’d gotten up and hugged me, and then told me that he and Mom loved me no matter who I brought home.

I hadn’t had to even say it.

I did, of course. Because that’s half the point of coming out—convincing yourself that speaking the words won’t end the world. But Dad already knew.

I shot a look over at Taavi, who looked uncomfortable. I wondered if he’d told his dad. Or how he’d told his dad, since his parents hadn’t seemed at all surprised that I was standing behind him, holding on to his shoulders. I mean, okay, they were also dead and it was a wholething, but I feel like it would have come up if they hadn’t known.

And now I was stalling in my own head because I still didn’t want to really think about what I was walking into with Elliot andhisdad.

“Can you tell me what you know?” I asked, speaking more to my dad than my mom, although I was pretty sure she was going to be the one to answer.

Turns out, I was wrong. My mother turned her head to look out the window, her hands pausing with her crochet.

“Not much, actually,” my father replied. “Elliot called us last night after you did. Your mother had texted him to let him know that we’re here to support him.” Dad paused, then switched the hand he was driving with so he could run his right over his hair, clearly agitated. “He said that his dad hadn’t answered the phone earlier, so he’d called one of the elders and asked him to go over to check on Gregory. It was Henry who found him.” Dad’s voice was tight, and my mother sniffled in her seat.

“Shit,” I said, then winced. “Sorry, Mom.”

She waved her hand, but didn’t say anything, clearly too upset to yell at me for swearing.

“Did—did you talk to Henry?” Henry Lamotte was a good decade or so older than my folks and hard as fucking nails. He lived alone on the Menominee Reservation—and had for as long as I’d known him—and regularly played chess with Gregory Crane and watered Gregory’s massive garden when he was on vacation. Even when we were kids, Henry’d had keys to the Crane house.

Fuck. Poor Henry.

“No,” my father answered. “We’ll call him today once we get home.”

I nodded, not that my dad was looking at me.

“Did Elliot say—how?” It was a lot harder to ask these questions of my fucking parents than it was witnesses I’d never met before. It’s one of those things that, as a cop, you just try really hard not to think about—what it would be like if you knew the victim. What it would be like if the family wereyourfamily.

“Valentine!” My mother’s tone of voice indicated that she thought I was being rude or uncouth or some shit.

I slowly let out a breath and reminded myself that my mother was not a cop and didn’t understand that this wasn’t me being nosy, this was me wanting to know how much difficulty I was going to have in making sure the Shawano PD gave this case their full attention.

“It matters, Mom,” is what I said out loud.

“No, Val, he didn’t tell us,” my dad answered.

“Okay.” I’d have to ask Elliot myself. And that was a conversation I was so very much not looking forward to.

Beside me, Taavi shifted, and I felt a warm hand take mine. He’d taken off my gloves to eat, and the car was comfortable enough that he’d left them off and even opened up my parka. I appreciated the gesture, the heat and roughness of his fingers providing a reminder that he was here with me. For me.

I wasn’t the one who was going to need the support, though. I was here toprovidesupport. I just… had no idea how.

But I was the person Elliot called first when he needed someone. Which meant that he didn’t really have anyone here. I mean, okay, obviously, he had my parents. He probably had Henry, although poor Henry was probably also going through some shit. But El…

I felt like a complete and utter failure as a friend.

He’d been there for me every fucking day when I was going through my woe-is-me bullshit about Taavi. He’d been there for me when I wanted to whine at someone who wasn’t Taavi, and had listened to me complain about my aching ribs and cut-up face after the whole throw-the-elf-in-the-quarry debacle.

And I hadn’t once thought about the fact that Elliot always answered my calls and put me in front of whatever he was doing. Or at least alongside it, as I know he sometimes kept working while he talked to me—no judgment. His tools were like extensions of his arms, and I’d seen him carry on complicated-as-fuck conversations while almost absently turning a perfect chair-leg or sanding a smooth edge.

But El didn’t have anyone else. And he never complained about it, never mentioned feeling lonely, never said a word about what he wanted out of life that he wasn’t already getting.