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I couldn’t disappear for the rest of the day, so I went back to the station. We didn’t have any callouts, so I spent the afternoon catching up on paperwork and staring at a half-finished slide deck for the safer sex initiative at the college. Palomo didn’t ask where I’d been. That was one of the benefits of having a smart partner: she knew when she didn’t want to know the answer.

As I worked, my brain turned over the encounter with Eddie Wheeler. In a lot of ways, it hadn’t been that unusual. I’d known a lot of guys like him. They were all over law enforcement—guys who’d gotten into the work because they liked power, they liked control, they liked being able to shit on other people. Bullies, in other words. And the thing with bullies was that if you didn’t stop them, they only got bolder. So, he’d started with that stupid joke, testing the waters by telling me his captain had said it. Hell, for all I knew, his captain really had said it. But that hadn’t been the point; the point had been to tell a joke about fags to a fag and see if he could get away with it. And when he did, he told another, and he didn’t bother pretending. The way he’d talked to me. The way he’d pushed back. The general combativeness. Because for guys like Eddie Wheeler, every interaction was about seeing who was going to be top dog. Every conversation was a dick-measuring contest.

One Saturday, a few months after I’d come out, my dad had dragged me to the lumberyard. He’d needed plywood. He was sick of the cellar doors leaking, and he was going to board them up. And while we were checking out, the guy ahead of us in line spotted us. Andrew Matthews was on the Springfield PD, and he’d only been four years ahead of me in high school. Four years is a lot when you’re that age, but he’d noticed me. I was hard not to notice, even back before that crazy bitch blew up my face. And he’d remembered. He looked at me, and he looked at my dad, and he said, “Hey, Mr. Dulac, how’s it going?” and he did the whole routine, and once they were chatting, he looked at me again and back at my dad and he said, “How many fags does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” And my dad didn’t say anything. Red started to climb his neck. And Andy said, “Just one, but you need everybody in the emergency room to get it out.” Ahead of us, the checker was still swiping items, and you could hear the scanner beep-beep-beep, and Andy was young enough to be my dad’s son. And then my dad said, “Why do fags have mustaches?” He couldn’t wait, didn’t even giveAndy a chance to answer, just blurted, “To hide the stretch marks.” That made Andy laugh pretty good. I didn’t understand until I was a lot older why my dad said he always wanted to be a cop.

What bothered me about Eddie Wheeler wasn’t the fact that he didn’t seem to care where his son might be or what might have happened to him—there were plenty of guys who would have said the same thing about their fag sons. It wasn’t even that Eddie talked a big game, and then he had to sit at home while his wife was out swinging her tatas. There were plenty of guys like that, too.

No, what bothered me was what he’d said at the end. About Tip getting his ass handed to him at the Beaver Trap. And how quickly, after that, Eddie had wanted the conversation to be over.

The right thing to do—the responsible thing to do—would have been to call over to the sheriff’s station and tell those two jerkoffs what I’d learned. I already knew what they’d say, though. They’d say whatever they thought would get me off the phone. And that would be the end of it.

Around four, I took out my phone and texted Darnell: I’ll be home late tonight .

Composition bubbles appeared. Then they disappeared.

The deal was that we didn’t have to explain. In fact, we’d agreed it was better if we didn’t. Just a polite notification so the other person didn’t worry.

I stared at my phone, though. And then I texted, Working late .

Nothing. Not even the composition bubbles.

I might hit the gym , I added. Maybe he’d like that; he was always modeling self-care, after all.

I didn’t think about how it sounded in the context of everything, though, until it was too late.

On the screen, a tiny notification appeared that Darnell Kirby’s phone was set to Do Not Disturb.

Well, I thought. That was new.

I tried to turn my mind to a plan, but aside from driving out to the Beaver Trap to find Lola Wheeler, I didn’t have one. Tip was gone, and aside from that blowoff text to Jordan, he’d gone radio silent. Nobody knew where he was. I remembered what it had felt like, wanting to disappear.

When Palomo started packing up her stuff, she gave me a look.

“I’m going to stick around,” I said. “I’ve got to get these slides done for the jags over at Wroxall.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder and said, “Night.”

After she left, I was alone in the bullpen. Shift change had already come and gone, the civilian employees had left for the day, and from the front of the building came the sound of Ehlers going through her routine as she locked the doors and shut down the lobby. If anybody had an emergency, they’d have to handle it the old-fashioned way and call 9. When Ehlers finished her routine, she passed the bullpen on her way to the locker room. She didn’t look over, but to be fair, I didn’t expect her to.

I probably should have worked on the slide deck. I mean, I had a deadline, and it was kind of a big deal—as big of a deal as it could be compared to the real work we were supposed to do. Instead, though, I jiggled my mouse to keep the screen awake, and then I got on my phone. I did my usual scan of Grindr and Scruff and Prowler. Location notifications showed me a few guys who weren’t too far away.

Sure enough, a message popped up on Prowler: what up

His profile name was jjeuphoria, which meant fuck all to me, and he didn’t have a picture. Of course, neither did I. That was the norm, actually.

Before I had a chance to reply, jjeuphoria sent another message: wanna trade

So, I sent him a picture of myself. No shirt, a pair of bikini briefs Darnell liked me in. You could see the shape of my dick, and my junk looked like dynamite. No face, but that was okay. Plenty of guys did that.

nice

Then his picture came through. It was a shot of a guy on his knees. He wasn’t wearing anything but a harness, and he’d put one of those smiley face stickers over his own face.

He didn’t wait for me to respond. u sucking

Maybe it was my irritation with Eddie, lingering even though I thought I’d moved on. I wrote back, You gotta talk to me a little first, bro .

He sent one of those goofy emojis back, and then u hung

Try this , I wrote back. How’s your day going?

There was definitely a delay—maybe he was trying to decide if there were any easier prospects out there—but eventually he wrote back: pretty chill hbu

I started to write, All right. And then, instead, I wrote, Pretty fucking terrible .

Less of a delay this time. u ok

I stared at the phone for a long time. No.

maybe u need to nut

A laugh burst out of me. How old are you?

19

Jesus Christ, I thought. I slouched in my chair, surprised by how tired I felt.

my buddy wants to eat your cum out of my ass

And then: that cool

I closed the app. I was hot. A rush went through me, and my eyes stung, and I dropped my phone and put my head in my hands. Jesus Christ, I thought again. And then, more fractured: What the fuck had I expected?

The sound of a door opening made me sit up and wipe my face.

“Detective Dulac?”

He was still technically Lieutenant Peterson. I wasn’t even sure they’d given him the title of Acting Chief, which was pretty shitty, all things considered. But he used my boy John-Henry’s office now. He’d started in February, when we all had to start facing facts.

Peterson stood in his doorway, considering me. He was Black, thin, his expression giving away nothing. My first thought was that Eddie Wheeler had called him. Then he said, “Everything all right?”

“Yeah, Chief. Sure.” When he didn’t say anything, I added, “Working late.”

He made a noncommittal noise.

Off in the distance, a vacuum came on; the cleaning crew must have started.

“How are you holding up?”

“Fine, sir.”

Peterson nodded. But he didn’t leave, and the vacuum kept droning. He locked his door, put his keys in his pocket, and said, “Finding that boy, that would have been a lot for anyone.”

“No big deal, sir.”

“I should have talked to you about it earlier.”

“I’m fine, Chief. Nothing to talk about.”

He nodded. “If there is, though, you know my door’s always open.”

I didn’t say anything to that.

“We’re happy to have you back, Gray.” His voice wasn’t exactly gentle, but it was calm and quiet and deep. “Everybody wants you to be here. You’re part of this team. You do good work. A lot of people around here look up to you. But you’ve got to take care of yourself too.”

“I don’t need any more leave time.” Too late, I added, “Sir.”

If my tone surprised him, it didn’t show on his face. He let that first, fraught moment pass, and then he said, “I was thinking maybe you might want to talk to someone. It doesn’t have to be me, of course. But, if you’ve got a minute, you could let me buy you a drink.”

And get myself put on leave again, I thought. Back in that house. Back in that house with nowhere to go and nothing to do. The weight of it on my chest made it hard to breathe.

I pushed back from the desk, snatched up my phone, and said, “Actually, I was just heading out.”