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“Darnell?” I shouted.

Nothing.

Somehow, I got myself to move.

The house was empty; he wasn’t home.

I called my boy John-Henry first. Then I realized what I’d done, and I disconnected.

I called Peterson next.

“Don’t touch anything,” he said.

By then John-Henry was calling me back. I sent the call to voicemail.

I couldn’t go back in the bedroom. I thought about shutting the door. Then I thought about prints. I’d already touched it once, but I didn’t want to fuck things up any more. I found clean clothes in the dryer and dressed—just mesh shorts and a faded Mo State shirt. Shoes. I’d need shoes. A pair of beat-up Sauconys. I ended up at the front door, staring out through the glass at the empty street: the unrelenting gray of the asphalt that dissolved into shadows, the trembling white cone from the streetlight. The stink had crawled up my nose; I could smell it even here. I wondered how I’d ever thought it was anything else.

Tip was dead.

He was here, in my house.

And Darnell was gone.

I hadn’t thought about calling him until then, but when I tried, it went to voicemail.

“Where are you? Call me back.”

One of the cruisers pulled up first, and Yarmark and Nickels got out. Even six months after the shit hit the fan, Yarmark—who was such a nerd that I thought of him as Clark Kent—was still worshipping at the altar of Saint Somerset. He still wore his hair like John-Henry. He still talked about John-Henry. I swear to Christ, one time I heard him ask John-Henry what kind of pen was best. John-Henry had no fucking clue what to say, so I’d said, He’s using a Bic, isn’t he? And sure enough, the little dipshit had bought himself a box of Bics. Nickels, at least, had some chill.

“You okay?” Nickels asked at the front door.

I nodded. “He’s in the back bedroom.”

“Anybody else?”

“Just me.”

“Why don’t you come outside with me?” Yarmark said. “Get some air.”

I nodded again.

“Detective Dulac,” he said gently.

He held the door for me, and once I was clear, Nickels went in. Yarmark walked me to the driveway. The night had cooled considerably, and I shivered. Shock, maybe. It was hard to say. It was hard to think about anything.

When Yarmark came back from the cruiser with a Wahredua PD windbreaker, I put it on.

Peterson showed up in uniform. He stopped on the driveway long enough to ask, “How are you doing?”

I nodded.

“Darnell?”

I shook my head.

Peterson patted my shoulder and went inside. A few minutes later, he came out with Nickels, the two of them talking in a low voice. He left Nickels by the door as he came down to the driveway again. He put his hand on my shoulder again and looked me in the eye and said, “We’re going to do this right, Gray. I promise.”

And just like that, my home became a crime scene.

Yarmark went to help Nickels, and when he was out of earshot, Peterson said, “Tell me what happened.”

So, I told him everything from when I’d seen Jordan leave the apartment the day before—the argument, his trip to Shepherd Park, learning that Tip had disappeared, my visit to Eddie Wheeler, and then the rest of the day from when I’d left the station to when I’d gotten home. Almost everything. Not the BJ from Jordan. And not the hummer from Ricky, or whatever his real name was.

“I know it’s not my investigation,” I said when I finished. “I know I fucked up. But nobody else cares.”

Peterson didn’t say anything. Another Wahredua PD patrol car arrived. A cruiser from the sheriff’s department parked behind it. Peterson still hadn’t said anything. Men got out of the cars. Doors slammed. And then, finally, he said, “When was the last time you saw him?”

For a disorienting moment, I thought he meant Darnell. And then I realized he was talking about Tip. “I don’t know. A couple of weeks ago. I did a follow-up, just to see how he was doing.”

“Gray, if there’s anything else you need to tell me about your relationship with that boy, now’s the time.”

It took a moment for me to understand. When I did, a tingling numbness started in my lips, in my mouth, in my tongue. “What?”

“He was an adult. I get that. But if it comes out later, it’s going to be a lot worse.”

I shook my head.

“Why’s he in your bed?”

“I don’t fucking know!”

The shout rang out on the empty street.

A deputy I didn’t recognize glanced over at us, but he moved on when Peterson waved a hand.

A big old Ford pulled up, and Brother Gary got out. The pencil-dick had found time to get dressed in his Matlock suit. Or maybe he slept in it. He looked over at me with sad, pouchy eyes as he settled that stupid cowboy hat on his head. Red Alvin was about two minutes behind him, showing up in a Firebird with a shot suspension. They talked for a moment. And then they pulled Peterson aside.

When Peterson came back, he said, “You’re going to the sheriff’s station for an interview.”

“Are you kidding me?” And before I could stop myself: “Do I need a lawyer? Where’s my rep?”

Voice so quiet I could barely hear him, Peterson said, “Right now, Gray, it’s an interview because a boy was found dead in your bed. I can’t advise you about a lawyer.” He considered me for another moment. “It’s only an interview.”

It was Burrows who drove me. The same deputy who’d gotten the call-out when Tip had been hurt. He didn’t cuff me. He didn’t put me in the back seat. I rode shotgun, and neither of us said anything on the drive over. He’d been in my bed, I thought. I’d touched his leg. My hair was still drying from the shower. The smell hadn’t gone away.

The sheriff’s station was attached to the county jail, but I tried not to think about that. It was built low and painted the color of dog shit, and inside, it smelled like burnt popcorn. Like the Wahredua PD, the lobby was shut down for the night, but an old guy with a fringe of hair the color of mop water was carefully cleaning the glass case of a bulletin board. He had a radio clipped to his belt, and from the snatches I heard, it sounded like he was listening to one of those emergency weather stations.

Burrows planted me in an interview room. It wasn’t that different from ours—the one-way mirror, the table bolted to the floor, light bulbs behind safety mesh. The first chair I tried smelled like ass, but so did the next one. Aside from a little dust bunny in the corner, I was alone. My phone buzzed. John-Henry again. I sent it to voicemail. Someone had tagged the table with a ballpoint. It was a pretty good work, except it looked like their name was Hair Salon.

According to the clock on my phone, I was in that fucking room for two hours and thirty-seven minutes before the door opened. When it did, it was like a premonition—this ghost of a moment when I knew, unshakably, that John-Henry was going to walk into the room. But it was Brother Gary. He was carrying that stupid hat under his arm, and the silver ring with his cross winked under the fluorescents. Red Alvin came behind him in track suit bottoms and a Rolling Stones T-shirt with the tongue logo.

“Well,” Brother Gary said, “this sure is a mess.”

At least he hadn’t said, We’re in a right pickle .

“You want to tell us what the fuck is going on?” Red Alvin asked.

I told them.

When I finished, Red Alvin said, “How long had you been sticking it to that kid?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Are you sure about that? Because even if you used a condom, there’s a good chance we’ll find something. Saliva. One of your curlies. Hell, these days, might even get a fingerprint off the skin.”

The cop part of me understood. Push and pull. Light me up and then calm me down. Good cop, bad cop. Plus, these two were bred-in-the-bone fuckholes.

“I never touched him. I saw him two, three times. I wanted to make sure he was okay. I was checking on him. Doing your fucking job.”

“You want to try that again?”

“I. Never. Touched him.”

“Fuck that,” Red Alvin said.

I shook my head. “I told you what happened. Are we done here?”

“You’re a lying sack of shit.”

Brother Gary looked up at the ceiling tiles like he was praying. And then he said, “Son, you’re not being honest with us.”

“Are we done here?” I asked.

“You need to start telling the truth. The truth will set you free.”

“Are we done here?”

“What happened?” Brother Gary said. “Did he try to say no? Did you get in a fight? You didn’t mean to hurt him; it just got out of hand.”

The room was full of the white noise of silence.

I pushed myself up. “We’re done here.”

“You fucked one of them over the arm of the couch,” Red Alvin said. His expression was set in redneck neutral, but I could hear the smirk in his voice. “He bragged about that part. And you let the other one blow you in Shepherd Park. That’s public indecency, Detective. There goes your badge.”

I had to breathe through my nose.

“Did you honestly think we wouldn’t find out, son?” Brother Gary shook his head.

Red Alvin still sounded like he was grinning. “You didn’t think anybody would notice? Pretty kid gets his face fucked up, and you just happen to be there, and you can’t explain how you got there or why you were there or what you were doing.” He adjusted himself through the track suit bottoms absently. “And you got your face fucked up too. What? That’s supposed to be some kind of coincidence?”

“Fuck you,” I said. “Fuck both of you.”

“And then you couldn’t stay away. Couldn’t leave it alone. Had to keep coming back.” He added lazily, “Sticking your dick where it don’t belong.”

“You got a statement from Tip. Talk to Jordan again. Ask him. I didn’t go anywhere near them. It was some big guy. Some Ozark Volunteers fucker with a beard. Quit wasting my fucking time and do your fucking jobs!”

I started for the door.

“Where’s Darnell?” Brother Gary asked.

Hand on the door, I stopped. I knew better than to respond, but I still said, “You’ve got to be out of your goddamn mind.”

“It’s a simple question, son.”

“You don’t know,” Red Alvin said. “You don’t know where he is right now, do you? And you’ve got no fucking idea where he was that night either. You’re too busy wetting your wick in the kiddie pool. Let me tell you something. People like you, you think you’re so smart. You think you got it all figured out. Poly this. Open that. Fucking around and telling each other nobody cares. That’s some fucking bullshit, though. Jealousy, man? That’s as old as Cain.”

I yanked open the door and left.