Page 43 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes

“Dunno.” Ari shrugs. “Never actually saw them together, and Bruce never mentioned him straight out either. When they was on the phone, Bruce would just call him baby or sweetheart. Probably the reason I remember even that.”

Dusty stiffens up beside Bruce as she assumes a defensive air of indifference. On the few occasions I’ve seen Dusty and Bruce together, I’ve heard him call her those exact names.

“Do you think he was in a relationship already, the other man? Could it have been an affair?” Sam asks.

“I don’t fuckin’ know, okay?” Ari huffs. “Could’ve been that he wasn’t out. Not a lot of people flying the flag back then, if you know what I mean. There was so many people still in the fuckin’ closet, I’m surprised there was any room left. Fuckin’ another man was only made legal ‘bout twenty years earlier. Add onto that the fuckin’ AIDS epidemic, and some people was too scared to be openly gay.”

“And you have no idea who it may have been that Bruce was seeing?”

Ari shakes his head in annoyance. “Like I said, no fuckin’ clue. But I will say this. Whoever it was, Bruce really loved him. I could hear it in his voice when they talked on the phone, even when they was arguing.”

I lift my eyes to Dusty as she stares at Bruce. “Who was he?” she asks, her voice carefully neutral.

“Dusty…” Bruce swallows hard and shakes his head, but there’s no masking the pain in his eyes. “It doesn’t matter now. It was over forty years ago.”

“I think it matters very much.” Her lips tighten.

“It doesn’t,” Bruce insists, frowning. “He had nothing to do with this.”

“Then why are you still protecting him?”

“Dusty, just forget it,” Bruce snaps and Dusty’s eyes widen. I’m as shocked as she is. I’ve never heard him use that tone with her.

“You were in love with him,” she says quietly, her eyes large and unreadable.

“Dusty… don’t…”

“Are you…” She swallows slowly, her voice barely more than a whisper. “You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?”

He stares at her silently. I’m vaguely aware that Ari and Danny are still talking, but all my attention is fixed on Dusty’s heartbroken expression.

“Dusty…” he says, his eyes filled with regret. “It’s… it’s complicated.”

Dusty lets go of his hand and takes an involuntary step back. Her cocky mask slips back into place.

“Doesn’t matter.” She shrugs and flicks her blonde hair over her shoulder sharply. “We were just fucking anyway.”

“Dusty…” He reaches for her, his expression filled with conflict and guilt. “I…”

Suddenly he gasps and wraps his arms across his stomach as if in intense pain and then doubles over, panting hard.

“Bruce!” Dusty reaches for him, but he’s already disappeared.

“Fucking hell,” Sam mutters under his breath for only me to hear. “You weren’t kidding when you said your life was like a bad soap opera.”

10

“What on earth are we watching?” Danny looks up from his laptop and stares at the screen in bemusement. “Last time I saw a perm that big was in a Cyndi Lauper video.”

“You’re such an old man.” I chuckle from my position sitting cross-legged on the floor. Leaning back against the sofa where he’s resting with his bad leg propped on the coffee table, I pluck another piece of paper from the box on the floor next to me and unfold it, scanning down the contents before placing it on the pile for recycle.

“What is it?” he mutters, reluctantly fascinated.

“North and South.” Picking up the next couple of sheets of tatty paper, I sort through them, putting one into the ‘keep’ pile while the other two join the ‘to be destroyed’ pile. “It’s Dusty’s favourite, all about two families during the American Civil War, one from the North and one from the South. It was filmed in the eighties, back when TV mini-series were big, and it’s one of the first things Patrick Swayze was in. He’s so young. There’s tons of well-known names in it. You wait until you see Jonathan Frakes. He’s practically a baby.”

“Oh my god, really? Riker fromStar Trek?” Danny’s eyes widen as he turns back to the TV. “Did they have perms during the American Civil War?” He eyes the screen dubiously. “Why’s Dusty watching it anyway? Is Bruce here with her?”

I glance at Dusty, who’s also sitting cross-legged in front of the TV. Her hair is in rollers and wrapped in a headscarf even though she doesn’t need to use them. She’s wearing a shirt and shorts pyjama set in pale peach silk and on her feet are fluffy stiletto mules. She looks like she belongs at Frenchie’s sleepover in the filmGrease.