Page 6

A quick check for a driver’s license issued to Thomas Wheeler took me to an apartment complex near Wroxall College. It was an older building—you could tell because, unlike the newer construction, this wasn’t a massive, multi-floor structure of luxury condos and mixed-use retail space. It was a single-story U-shape with vinyl siding and a narrow, covered walkway that the residents had turned into a kind of extended porch. Most of the apartments had a couple of chairs out front, often with a welcome mat, and several had potted plants that were thriving in the Midwestern heat and humidity.

Tip’s unit was at the end of one of the legs of the U. It had two webbed lawn chairs in front and the bottom of a milk jug that, to judge by the roach abandoned there, was being used as an ashtray, just not for cigarettes.

One of the basic rules of any investigation was to learn as much as you could about the victim. It was important not only for figuring out who might have wanted to hurt them and why, but also for establishing routines, patterns, anything that might have provided their assailant with opportunity. Of course, for any of that to be true, the crime couldn’t be something totally random, like getting bashed in the dark outside a stranger’s party.

But the other thing about checking out a victim’s space was that it was a great way to figure out what they might be lying about. And why. Besides, I was curious about this roommate who’d invited Tip to the party and couldn’t be bothered to stop by the hospital.

I rapped on the door. The sun was still climbing in the sky, and the heat was rising with it. Most years, I looked forward to Memorial Day. Pools opened. Summer officially began (cue Emery wanting to argue about the calendar). Guys were out in shorts and tanks.

No one came to the door. Sweat was building on my neck, and the air was still and heavy and smelled like the ashes in the cut-up milk jug. I knocked again, harder this time.

The deadbolt shot back, and the door opened. A guy stood there, rubbing his eyes, picture of a college kid suffering an epic hangover. He was around my height, brown hair in a boyishly shaggy (and sleep-mussed) side part, and his downturned mouth and weak chin made him cute rather than handsome. He wore a bro cut tee, yellow with a smiley face across the front, and cut-off sweats. With a trace of resentment, he said, “What?”

“Gray Dulac.” I showed him my badge. “Detective with the Wahredua PD. Are you Rory?”

He didn’t actually say oh shit , but you learn to pick up on those things—the way his bloodshot eyes got huge, the instinctive glance over his shoulder to check if he’d left anything incriminating lying out. It looked and felt the way any dumbass college kid might act if the police showed up on his doorstep. Especially after a night out.

“I need to talk to you about your roommate,” I said.

I started into the house before I’d finished talking. That’s another trick they don’t put in the textbooks at the academy, but like the waiting game, it works a surprising amount of the time. People don’t know what to do, so they do what they’ve been conditioned to do: play nice, go along to get along. He stepped back automatically, letting me into the apartment, and I shut the door behind me.

We stood in a cramped entry hall, in the weak daylight that filtered through the windows, and the kid was ripe . He was still sweating out the booze, and the musk of weed clung to him. The hall opened up after a few feet; on the left, I could see bifold doors that stood open to reveal a washer and dryer—talk about living in luxury. Clothes were piled on top of the dryer, and it was impossible to tell if they were clean or dirty. To the right, the apartment opened up into a large, combined living space: kitchen and living room crammed together. The furniture was the usual secondhand junk—a sofa with plaid upholstery; an armchair done in black vinyl, now ripped; a coffee table that looked like it had come from a grandmother’s house via Goodwill. On one wall was a RuPaul’s Drag Race poster, and somebody had hung a plastic lei from the overhead light.

By that point, Rory had recovered enough to ask, “Who?”

“Your roommate.”

“Yeah, which one?”

“Tip,” I said. “Who else lives here?”

“Just Jordan.”

Which neither Tip nor Jordan had mentioned, although, to be fair, I hadn’t asked. Maybe they’d assumed that I’d known. Or that it had been implied by Jordan’s view, at least, of their relationship.

Rory nodded. Even in the dim light, his color was bad, and he had one hand pressed to the side of his head.

“You want to sit down?” I asked.

“Can I take something for my head? I, uh, kind of overdid it last night.”

I followed him into the kitchen—oak cabinets, oatmeal-colored laminate counters, linoleum patterned in a truly hideous brown. He got a glass and a bottle of ibuprofen, and he took four of the pills with water. Then he leaned against the counter, rubbing his temples. A little window behind him looked out on an alley, where a dumpster sat under a sign that said NO DUMPING – YOU ARE BEING RECORDED!

“Was it a good party, at least?” I asked.

He shrugged. But then he looked at me. A steady look. He didn’t flinch or let his eyes slide away. After a moment, he said, “I know you. Have I seen you at the gym?”

I burst out laughing. “Does that still work?”

A grin spread across his face, sheepish and surprisingly sweet, and he shrugged. “Sometimes. You’d be surprised. I do know you, though.”

Maybe he did. Something about his voice, at least, was familiar. “Yeah?”

“I mean, everybody knows you.” When he smiled, he had dangerous dimples. “Plus, I’ve seen you at the Pretty Pretty. You’re cute.”

He crossed his legs, and the pose made his dick visible against the thin fabric of the cut-offs. He brought one hand up, and his fingers hooked the collar of his tee, the movement playful, maybe even meant to look abashed—and, at the same time, giving me a hint of a toned, tan chest.

And of something else.

“Must have been good,” I said, gesturing to my neck in the same spot where, on his, fresh scratches stood out in raised lines. I hadn’t been able to see them earlier because the house was so dark, but now, with the window behind him, they were visible.

“Oh. Yeah.” His gaze was startlingly direct again. “Some guys are into that, you know?”

“Did you know Tip was attacked last night?”

He gave a nod. “That’s so messed up.”

“Why aren’t you at the hospital?”

“Huh?”

“I’m surprised you’re not at the hospital with your roommate. He got hurt pretty badly.”

“Yeah, man, I know.” A hint of color moved into his cheeks. “His psycho parents wouldn’t let me see him. And anyway, what was I supposed to do? Jordan would lose his mind if I tried to hang around all day.”

“So, you did go to the hospital?”

“Yeah, I just said that.”

“Why wouldn’t his parents let you see him?”

“They’re insane. Have you met them?”

I played the waiting game. I didn’t have to wait long.

“The dad is a huge homophobe,” Rory said. “Like, out of control. He pretends Tip isn’t gay, and when he can’t, like if Jordan is all over Tip, then he leaves or turns on the TV or something. And the mom—” Rory seemed to grope for words before finally saying, “She’s obsessed with Tip.”

“Overprotective?”

Rory shook his head. “No, obsessed. She used to have a tracker on his phone, and this was after he was an adult and on his own phone plan and everything.”

An adult, I thought, remembering the boy in the hospital bed.

“And that’s not even the worst of it.” Rory’s voice took on the excitement of someone sharing ugly but interesting gossip; his head must have been feeling better. “Did you know Tip’s not even from here?”

“From Wahredua?”

“He grew up in Kansas City. And when he graduated, he decided to go to Wroxall because he got a scholarship and everything. And get this: when he moved here, his mom moved here too. Made the dad move too. They literally followed him to college.”

“How’d they make that work with jobs?”

“She’s got money; that’s what Tip says. But the dad works for Highway Patrol, and I guess they let him relocate.”

And that explained why Mr. Wheeler had seemed savvier than an ordinary citizen about law enforcement.

“How does Tip feel about all of that?”

“He hates it. I mean, the whole reason he came here was to get away from them.” Rory slouched against the counter, arms folded across his chest to display nicely developed biceps, but his expression was distant, as though he were trying to decide something. “She kisses him on the lips.”

“The mom? And Tip?”

Rory nodded, mouth twisting. “I went over there once for dinner because Tip begged me. Never again. So fucking weird. Shit, sorry.”

I ignored the apology, my attention on what Rory had told me. There’d definitely been something strange going on between the parents at the hospital. Had the mom’s reaction simply been an extreme emotional response because of her attachment to her son? Or would even a “normal” mom—whatever that meant—have had the same kind of response? I wasn’t the right person to ask; when my mom had called, after, when I’d still been in the hospital, she’d asked me how bad it was, told me it was horrible, and then wanted to talk about her vaginal rejuvenation surgery. I don’t want Robert to feel like he’s throwing a hot dog down a hallway, do I? I didn’t even know who Robert was.

“Did something happen?”

Rory’s words drew me out of my thoughts. “What?”

“To Tip? I mean, at the hospital? Is that why you’re here?”

It took me another moment to process the question. Then I shook my head. “I need to take a look at his room.”

“Uh, yeah. It’s that one.” He pointed down a short hallway. “At the end.”

“Stick around,” I said. “I might have some more questions.”

“Yeah, totally.”

Tip’s bedroom was more or less what I’d expected. An extra-long twin bed, a wobbly dresser, loose change scattered together with vape pods and phone chargers. A FUCK BOI snapback that had a suspicious stain on it. He’d hung a progress flag and couple of art prints that looked like TJ Maxx specials; the frames were dusty. I checked the drawers and found, again, what I’d expected. Clothes, a pump bottle of lube that looked simultaneously crusty and sticky, a leather-snap cock ring, a jelly dildo that probably needed to be thrown away. Instead of a desk or nightstand, he had a table with white legs and an oak veneer, where a stack of beaten-up textbooks lay—since we were past the end of the semester, they must have been the ones he couldn’t sell back. A backpack beneath the little table held an aging Chromebook, another phone charger, a flattened pack of Orbit gum, a vape pen, and so many Bic mechanical pencils he could have been dealing.

Nothing stood out to me. No drugs—although, from our conversation at the hospital, it seemed like a safe bet that Tip used occasionally. No suspicious amounts of cash. The few pieces of jewelry, rings and bracelets, all looked like sterling silver shit that had come with the Fuck Boi starter pack. And while the clothes tended toward expensive, they were still all things that a college boy with a financially stable family could have had.

When I got back to the combined living area, Rory was vaping at an open window. He shot his eyebrows when he noticed me. “Find what you were looking for?”

“Maybe. How were things with Tip and Jordan?”

Rory laughed. Between the vape and the ibuprofen, he looked like he was definitely starting to feel better. “What things?”

“I was under the impression they were in a relationship.”

“Let me guess: Jordan told you that.”

“They aren’t?”

Rory hit his vape. When he breathed out, it smelled like a shot of Fireball. The air coming through the open window was warm and humid, and the combination was unexpectedly pleasant. “I don’t know. Tip doesn’t know. The only one who seems to know is Jordan.” He tapped the vape against his mouth. That downturned mouth of his made him look grave. “Jordan’s the kind of guy who has to have a boyfriend, know what I mean? And Tip—”

When he didn’t continue, I said, “Does Tip want a boyfriend?”

“Tip wants to have fun,” Rory said. “Come on, I don’t want to talk shit about anybody. He just had something awful happen to him. He’s twenty. He finally got away from his parents—kind of—and he wants to live his life. What’s wrong with wanting to have a little fun?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Does Jordan know Tip wants to have fun?”

“You know who Jordan is? Jordan is the guy who thinks if he puts up with enough shit, he’ll finally get what he wants. Jordan is everybody that’s ever stayed in a failing marriage because they think they can make it work if they’re loyal enough or patient enough or understanding enough. Jordan is everybody who stays at a fucking dead-end job thinking that someday, somebody’s going to recognize what they did for this faceless, soulless megacorp, and they’ll finally get what they deserve.” He shut the window and leaned against the glass, crossing his legs again, the fabric of the cut-offs pulling tight across his dick again. “Jordan’s a chump.”

“Pretty cynical for a twenty-year-old.”

“If you ever go to Joplin, say hi to my mom and dad.”

That made me smile. The frustration and contempt in Rory’s voice tinged his answering smile, but it bled away.

“Has Tip been involved in any conflicts recently?”

“With Jordan?”

I didn’t answer.

“No way.” Rory shook his head. “I mean, the usual stuff. It’s not even arguments, really. Jordan gets butt-hurt when we go out sometimes. He tries to give Tip the cold shoulder. Eventually, he decides he wants to suck Tip’s dick more than he wants to give him the cold shoulder.” He smiled again. “Whoops.”

“What about with anyone else?”

“I don’t know. Like, he got in a fight with someone, and that’s why they did this to him? That’s crazy. Tip’s just a normal guy. This—what happened to him—it’s crazy.”

“No fights at a party? A disagreement at the club? An ex who wouldn’t leave him alone?”

Rory stared at me like I was out of my mind.

“Where were you last night?” I asked.

He shot his eyebrows again. “What?”

“It’s a simple question.”

“I was at the party. With Tip and Jordan.”

“But you weren’t with them, were you?”

“No. We split up.”

“When was the last time you saw Tip?”

“Honestly? When we got there, I guess. I ran into a couple of guys from school I knew. I found somebody to hook up with.” His smile was crooked now. “Want the details?”

“And what about Jordan?”

“Same—when we got there. I knew he was going to be butt-hurt all night, following Tip, trying to make him feel bad.”

“Tip and Jordan told me that they weren’t together at the party.”

Rory shrugged.

“Tip told me you invited him to the party.”

“Yeah. We always tell each other if we hear about something.”

“He said he thought it was going to be wild. Hardcore. He said he heard this guy had a dungeon.”

Rory burst out laughing, winced, and touched his head. “Uh, yeah, I don’t know where he heard that, but that definitely would have gone straight to his dick.”

“Does Tip like rough sex?”

“Tip likes the idea of being…wild, I guess. He thinks he’s hot shit.”

“But you didn’t tell him that’s what the party would be like?”

“No.”

“How did you hear about the party?”

“God, I don’t know.” Rory thought about it. “I was at a party a couple of weekends ago. Someone was talking about it. This guy—the one who owns that house—his name is Sunny, I think. He doesn’t live here, but when he’s in town, there’s always something going on. Somebody knew he was going to be here for Memorial Day.”

“Somebody?” I asked.

“I don’t remember.”

“Are you and Tip sexually involved?”

This time, he didn’t burst out laughing, but his grin was bright and sudden, and those dangerous dimples flashed out again. “Jordan told you that.”

“Are you?”

“He’s such a jealous little bitch. He thinks Tip is sleeping with everyone.”

“I’m not asking about everyone right now. I’m asking about you.”

Some of the glint came off the smile. “No. We don’t hook up. We never have. We’re more like brothers. We like going to the same parties. We like going after the same guys.” He hooked his thumb in his waistband, baring an inch of paler skin. “Did he hit on you? Because if he did, I, like, totally have to do it too.”

The sound of traffic on the street filtered into the silence between us.

“What happened to you?” he asked in a different tone, and he jerked his chin toward me, like I might not know what he was talking about.

“I fell off my bike.”

The playfulness had dropped away from him. He was looking me in the eye now, his expression intent. That downturned mouth made him look very serious. “You’re gay, right? I mean, I know you are.” A hint of color dusted his cheeks. “People talk, and, you know, I’ve seen you.”

I nodded.

“Is it hard? Hooking up, I mean. With the scars.” More color rushed into his face. “I’m not trying to be a piece of shit. I mean, like, Tip. I keep thinking about what it’s going to be like for him.” He seemed to struggle with the next words before he said, “I think it’s really going to fuck him up.”

It will, I thought.

But I said, “It bothers some guys. Other guys…” I shrugged. “He’s young, he’s fit. Trust me, he’ll find somebody to fuck.”

Rory was still staring at me. His voice was surprisingly low when he said, “I think it’s hot.”

The little apartment smelled like stale laundry and trash that needed to be taken out and an unwashed guy.

“I’m not wearing any underwear,” Rory said.

“Did you pick that up from BoyfriendTV?”

In answer, he slid the shorts below the curve of his ass and let them drop.

He had a nice dick, nice balls, strong thighs. He was shaved. He was already half hard, and he touched himself with one hand. With the other, he rucked the shirt up to expose his flat stomach. He was still looking at me.

“Do you have lube?” I asked. “Or do you all share Tip’s bottle?”

He smiled at the dig, kicked loose of the shorts, and pulled off his tee as he padded toward his bedroom. He came back a moment later with a little bottle of silicone lube. Not my favorite, but it would work.

“Condom?” I said.

He grinned and shook his head.

I put him over the arm of the couch. The prep was minimal. He was tight, and he grunted when I pushed in, but after a few seconds, he made a different kind of sound, deeper in his chest, and pressed back against me. I started to move then.

It was a hard, fast fuck. Once I set the pace, Rory whimpered from beginning to end. He got one hand between his legs, and that arm moved like crazy as I drove into him over and over again. I grabbed his nape and pressed his face into the sofa cushions. The muscles in my back were tight. My hips and legs burned. I hadn’t bothered taking off my clothes, and my belt jangled with every movement. When he came, he gasped, and he tightened around me. It took me another ten or fifteen seconds, my hand squeezing his neck as I increased my pace. He squirmed, and he whimpered, but he took it.

When I came, my vision darkened, my body clenched, and the wave of release that followed was so intense that I had to get one knee up against the sofa to keep from losing my balance.

I slipped out of him and put a hand between his shoulder blades, steadying both of us. His skin was slick with sweat. He made that deep-in-his-chest sound again and stretched like a cat. When he got up, I offered a hand, but he was twenty years old, and he moved like he had slinkies for bones.

“That was hot,” he said. “We should do that again.”

I straightened my shirt, buttoned my waistband, did up my zipper. My belt was still jangling every time I moved.

“I should probably get your number,” Rory said. He was flushed, and sweat glistened at his hairline. “In case I think of something important to tell you.”

“Call the station,” I said and left.

I drove to the Kum & Go and parked at one of the pumps. A disconnected part of me thought there was a joke there. I ran the AC on high and undid the buttons on the polo, parted the placket, ran one hand through my hair. Sweat made me feel like I was sticking to the seat, and I could smell myself.

My phone buzzed.

If it’s that fucking kid, I thought.

But it wasn’t. It was Saint fucking Somerset.

I let the call go to voicemail. A few seconds later, the phone buzzed again to show me that Saint Somerset had left a message. And then, a few seconds after that, Wahredua’s Golden Boy sent me a message.

Hey, just checking in. I heard about the kid you found. I wanted to make sure you’re okay. Let me know if you need anything .

I deleted the text and drove home.