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On my way, I sent back.

And immediately felt guilty because I was about to abandon Taavi in my parents’ house.

“I—”

Taavi gave me a smile that didn’t quite reach his beautiful, mismatched eyes. “He’s not going to want to be polite to me right now,” he said softly. “Go. I’ll pretend to take a nap.”

I took his face in my hands and kissed him tenderly. “Thank you.”

He nodded, looking nervous and a little unhappy, and I didn’t want to go, but Elliot needed me more than Taavi did, so… I went.

My mother was in the kitchen finishing washing out a mug as I passed through. “I’m going over to Elliot’s,” I told her. “Taavi’s upstairs taking a nap.”

My mother dried her hands, then turned to the fridge. “Take him some food, Val.”

I stopped, then nodded. Food is love in my family, so it made sense that my mom had made Elliot food. I had no ideawhenthe fuck she’d done that, but at some point between midnight and seven-thirty this morning, she’d baked a casserole and a pan of blondies, both of which were in little aluminum pans with Elliot’s name written on the top in blue permanent marker.

Apparently my mother hadn’t really slept last night, either.

I set the pans on the counter when she handed them to me and pulled her into a hug, trying not to get too weird about my mother sniffling into my shirt.

“Thanks for everything, Mom.”

“Oh, sweetie.” She stepped back, then patted my chest. “You’re a good man, Valentine.”

I grimaced. I don’t take compliments well. Even from my mom. “I don’t know when I’ll be back,” I told her. She nodded, straightening the hand towel she’d used to dry her hands. Keeping herself busy.

I got it. Hell, I’d gotten itfromher. The need to be doing something so that you didn’t have to think about the shit you didn’t want to think about.

“I’ll text Taavi to let him know if I’ll be back for dinner, okay?”

“Of course,” came my mother’s almost automatic response. “Whatever Elliot needs. And let me know if he needs more food.”

“I will, Mom.”

“Take my car,” she continued, pulling a set of keys out of a little snowman basket by the door. One of many holiday-themed things my mother had already decorated the house with. She hadn’t gone all-out yet, thank God, because I didn’t think I could fucking handle that on top of everything else.

I let her pat my arm a few more times, then grabbed my parka off the hook where Taavi’d stowed it by the door, zipping up against the cold.

* * *

I pulledmy mom’s light blue Taurus into the familiar driveway in front of Gregory Crane’s vaguely Frank Lloyd Wright-esque, mid-twentieth-century brown house. It had a single story, surrounded by a massive garden. Gregory Crane didn’t just have a garden—his whole yardwashis garden. Most of it was taken up by medicinal herbs, trees, and bushes, including the massive willow that took up half of the front. The back yard had a whole bunch of flower beds, raised vegetable garden beds, and a small pond, since there were at least a half-dozen other plants that needed water to grow, like cattails. All of them had some use—medicinal, food, or ritualistic.

Most of the plants were dead or sleeping or whatever they did in the winter. The more delicate plants would have been dragged inside in pots from the front and back porches. It looked like Gregory had covered several of the front beds with leaves and burlap, although a few of them were still uncovered—annuals, maybe. It wasn’t like him not to save his plants if there was a frost coming. The house was dark, and from the driveway I could see the tell-tale yellow of police tape across the front door.

Jesus fuck.

I sat in the car, the engine running to keep the temperature from rapidly dropping below freezing, waiting for Elliot. I stared at the side of the house I had spent almost as much time in as a kid as my own, trying to figure out what the fuck you say to your best friend on the occasion of his father’s murder.

About five minutes later, Elliot’s dark brown Tundra pulled in beside me, so I cut the engine and got out. I still had no idea what to say to him.

So I didn’t say anything. I just hugged him, letting him rest his head on my shoulder, his silent tears beading on my parka.

I felt—not sad, exactly, which was honestly kind of strange. I’d known and really liked Elliot’s dad, and I certainly wasn’thappyhe was dead. Horrified, absolutely. I felt bad for Elliot, certainly. I mostly just felt… hollow. Like there was something missing that should have been there. Like something was terribly wrong.

I guess both of those things were true.

Then Elliot stepped back, scrubbing a mitten across his face. “Fuck. Sorry.”