Page 63 of Beyond the Stix

We park about a half a block down from the house, in one of those weird alcoves off the road. Even with the neon hue of the truck, the trees and the darkness hide us well, so any passersby can’t see the vehicle.

We approach the single-story from the south side of the property. The grass along the chain link fence that surrounds three quarters of the property has grown half way up. That tells me the resident hasn’t been home for a long while.

Once over the fence, I go left, whereas Fig heads right and we meet in the front of the house. There’s a single light on at the front door that faces away from the road, but no security or video security system is visible. With that confirmed, we head around the back, and Fig opens the back door with a simple tool from his pocket.

Inside, we click on our penlights, which show a thin layer of dust coating the counters in the kitchen, the furniture, all the surfaces in the home. We’re careful not to disturb it.

Fig heads down the hall to check the last room on the right, and I take the small master bedroom on the left. Nothing looks odd, but again, the place is sparsely furnished, like no one really lives here.

I’m about to walk out when I decide to check the door next to the entrance. When I open it, I find it’s a walk-in closet. Standing in the threshold, I run my light and a gloved finger along oneof the hanging shirts. “Weird.” There’s a layer of dust on the clothes, like they haven’t been worn for years.

“Did you find anything?” Fig asks as he stands behind me.

“No—wait.” I step further inside, and my stomach bottoms out of me. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Fig moves past me, and finds what I’m staring at.

On the far wall, partially covered by men’s clothes, are pictures. A familiar pair of eyes peeks between a pair of black slacks and a white dress shirt.

I know that face all too well. “Connor,” I whisper.

Fig further parts the clothing, exposing the entire back wall—a memorial of some sort. There are pictures of Connor from infancy to a gig he and the band had played when they were in high school.

I lean in, peering closely at the papers pinned with each image. My heart lurches when I realize that each piece of paper is a love letter to Connor.

“I need to call Dean and report what we’ve found,” Fig says, as he raises his cellphone and takes several pictures of the wall.

“Did you find a computer or a laptop?” I croak out.

“No. It’s like the place hasn’t been lived in for a while,” Fig admits, before stepping away from the makeshift shrine.

“If he hasn’t been living here for years, where has he been staying?” Then a thought hits me. I look at Fig, and say, “He lives?—”

“—near Connor,” Fig finishes as he points to the image of Connor and his friends in a back yard, barbequing.

“Oh, shit. He must have a place near the Wild’s residence. We have to get out of here. You call Dean, and I’ll call Tobias.”

Without hesitation, Fig and I leave the house, and take off toward his vehicle. I glance at my watch and grimace at the time. It’s hitting close to nine at night and I don’t remember the band’s schedule, but Warrior Black should be on stage or will be soon.However, I have no choice but to call Tobias and warn him what we found.

I just hope Connor doesn’t hear about this. At least, not before we locate Jessup.

TWENTY-TWO

Connor

As far as apologies go,I half-assed it. I said it, though, and John responded. My heart is still racing long after he hung up, but it was good to hear his voice. That says something, right?

I regret letting my anger take over. I’m ashamed that I was blinded by my mistrust, and unwilling to hear John’s reasons for looking through my phone. That isn’t like me.

Unfortunately, it’s been my go-to reaction lately, and now I know why. And it leads back to Jessup. While we’re at it, let’s throw in a load of embarrassment that I didn’t get rid of all the damn creepy messages Jessup has sent me. But now his texts make sense. He was messaging me like I was his boyfriend. Christ, the guy needs psychiatric help.

I should have just blocked him like John suggested. But at one point I was going to let Jessup back in my life. A shudder of disgust cuts through me at the vile, twisted things he said to me last night and how he touched me.

No fucking way that’s happening now.

My resolve firm, I look down at the screen and, one by one, I delete the messages until they are all erased from my phone. I then block his number.

Jessup is gone—hopefully in jail—I don’t fucking care where he’s at anymore. As long as he’s nowhere near me and my mother.