Decision, advantage, adapt.

  Why talk? Why take the time to say anything unless—

  The smaller man dropped to his belly, his hand shooting out toward something under the bed.

  John-Henry ran.

  A gunshot clapped behind him.

  Cover, his brain said again. Concealment. Situational awareness. Situational awareness. What’s around you, and how can you use it. What are the threats. What are the tactical advantages.

  Those thoughts took place in a sub-layer of his brain, not even quite words, but a combination of instinct and training and the flash fires of adrenaline. His steps hammered on the wooden floorboards. His blood sang in his ear. He was distantly aware of the rest of his body: the breath whooshing in his lungs, the stinging citrus of that cologne lingering in his nostrils, the slow white scream of his shoulder.

  Another gunshot rang out. Ahead of John-Henry, a piece of the railing at the top of the stairs blew apart. Splinters flew to strike the glass with a soft, rattling noise like rain. Steps came after him, and John-Henry risked a glance back. The smaller man sprinted down the hall, and if his injuries slowed him, John-Henry didn’t see any sign of it.

  He turned his attention forward and realized, with a flash of horror, how stupid he’d been. He was running full speed when he went off the top of the stairs. The old animal horror of falling made his stomach weightless. Then he came down, and it was luck as much as his natural athleticism that kept him upright even as the shock zinged from his heels up to his knees. One more stride carried him to the landing, and he swung around the switchback staircase to launch himself down the next flight. For a moment, he and the smaller man were facing each other. The man didn’t break stride as he raised the gun to fire again, and John-Henry launched himself down the stairs. The shot cracked the air. The bullet must have come close; John-Henry felt it like an angry whisper, the air so sharp it felt like it stung his cheek.

  He hit the bottom of the stairs and tried to crank on the speed. He was in excellent condition. Better than most guys his age. Better, for that matter, than most guys ten years younger. But the smaller man looked like he could have been half John-Henry’s age, at that time in his life when energy seemed endless, when the body rebounded from everything, when eye and hand were most tightly fused. If I can get to the car, John-Henry thought. If I can get to the car. He sucked in air as he sprinted toward the front of the house. Just get outside. Just get across the entry hall, open the door, get outside—

  Situational awareness.

  The rug.

  At the last moment, John-Henry jumped. He’d never been a track kid, and running had always been a means to something else—kicking ass in football, at first, and then, as an adult, as a way of being a better police officer. Having Emery in his life had taken that to the next level. The decision happened between one footfall and the next, and John-Henry jumped. He cleared the rug, landed hard at the front door, and checked the wall with his bad shoulder. Pain moved the world back a few inches, but he kept moving. He managed to remember to keep his sleeve over his hand as he got the door open. A wordless shout came from behind him, and then the door jerked in his hand as though someone had kicked it. Gunfire thundered again.

  But John-Henry threw the door open and darted outside. The wind was a knife against his cheeks. Frozen concrete and asphalt threatened to make him slip with every step. The branches were moving again, or maybe that was just the blood rushing in his ears. Half a block. He had to make it half a block out in the open, with the streetlights making him an easy target.

  Even over the hammering of his blood, he heard the thud and cry from within Brey’s house. The rug. He wanted to laugh, but something else was surging up inside him—the anger that he hadn’t felt until now because he’d been too busy staying alive. Anger at this man who had tried to kill him. Anger at yet another dead end in the investigation. Anger—a thick, seeping black rage—at the universe, the world, this town for allowing this to happen to him. It ballooned inside him until it felt like it took up all the available space inside his body, until it felt so big that he didn’t think he could breathe.

  His hip bumped the Mustang as he fumbled the keys out of his pocket. He risked a glance. The man stood framed in Brey’s doorway, looking up and down the street. The way he held himself suggested that when he’d fallen on the loose rug, it had been a bad one. Or maybe the blows that John-Henry had gotten in were finally catching up. Maybe both.

  John-Henry wasn’t going to wait around to find out. He got in the car, cut a sharp U-turn, and sped into the night.

  13

  The restaurant was called The Nifty Fifties, and from the road, it looked like the perfect spot: an hour away from Auburn on a state highway that, on an ordinary night, couldn’t have seen more than a hundred cars. A lone security light in the parking lot sent a gleam warping along the plexiglass window and picked out the fuzzy algae growing on the side of the frame building. A handful of cars suggested other people, real people—which meant the Nifty Fifties felt like an oasis of light and warmth and normalcy in this nightmare.

  John-Henry parked behind the restaurant, between an overflowing dumpster and a Port-a-Potty. At least it’s winter, he thought. He tried not to imagine summer.

  His hands were shaking so badly his finger missed the first time he tried to call Emery.

  “Where are you?”

  “Hi. I’m fine.”

  “Good. Where are you?”

  In spite of himself, John-Henry smiled. “The Nifty Fifties.”

  Silence. Then, “Have you been drinking?”

  “Not yet. It’s the name of a restaurant out on—Jesus, I don’t even remember. It’s on the way to Auburn. I had to stop, so I just wanted you to know I was here. I’ll be home, I don’t know, in an hour or two.”

  “Why are you out there?”

  John-Henry heard the real question, though. The one that Emery had already asked once: Have you been drinking?

  Then Emery said, “Wait, Auburn?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, I was going to tell you about that. It’s more of an in-person conversation. As soon as I’m good to drive, I’ll be home.” John-Henry heard how that must have sounded, so he rushed to add, “I swear to God, I haven’t had a drop. I’m just a little shaken up.”

  More of that silence. John-Henry could almost hear the calculations.

  “Are you safe?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Nothing serious.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  “I know.” John-Henry had to wet his lips; they were cracked, and they stung after his tongue passed over them. “I’m sorry.”

  “What the fuck are you sorry for?” Emery asked. “All you did was run off and nearly get yourself killed.”

  The call disconnected.

  John-Henry let his head fall back. The adrenaline rush from the fight was fading, and in the aftermath, his body was exhausted, and the shakes were only part of it. He felt sick to his stomach, his skin clammy. Moments from the fight flashed at him: that first, bad tumble; pain flowering in his shoulder; the realization that he might lose this fight, and the struggle to hold on to the belief that he could win.

  He tried to steer his thoughts onto new tracks. He was too tired to process Emery’s anger, and anyway, even if he hadn’t been, he was too angry himself for it to have much of an impact. Angry at himself. For the childlike outburst. For how quickly it had escalated into a fight, when he and Emery had been doing so much better. For the fact that he couldn’t explain, not in any coherent way—couldn’t even put into words—why it felt so important to pull Colt and put him into another school. Because they did it to you. That was part of it. Because they’re doing it to me. That was part of it too. Because they’ll do it to him, and it doesn’t matter what we say or do, we can’t protect him from that. That was part of it as well. But it was so much more. It was this newfound sense of helplessness. And it was the anger.

  The anger ran so deep. The injustice of it all. The unfairness of it. He could hear the childlike petulance of his thoughts. And he summoned the old mantra: I will not be that boy. I will be who I want to be. For a long time, willpower had been enough. He had resolved not to be what his parents wanted him to be: entitled, selfish, spoiled in the truest sense of the word—his emotional maturity forever stunted, his capacity for love and compassion and understanding ruined, and ultimately, his independence and personhood and individuality crippled. It had taken him a long time to put into words why he had thrown away what his parents and so many other people had considered a perfect life, but he had understood even as a teenager, in a way below words, that he was being poisoned. That he was, in fact, poisoning himself. And it was making him sick, even though he couldn’t have told anyone the particular symptoms, or explained what was wrong, or what he wanted to be different. He only knew that there was something different out there. Something more. He had tasted it that night on the football field, the stadium lights like mercury on his face.

  So: BJs with his dormmate; the police academy instead of law school; then Emery; and then coming out, whatever that meant at his age, when you were already spending twenty-three-hours a day with the person you loved most in the world. And all of it had cost him something; he wasn’t a fool, and he wasn’t blind. He’d known every time he broke the rules that he was going to pay for it. But the price had always been worth it because what he got in exchange had been so much better. He’d learned to be responsible, to think for himself, to choose kindness and integrity over importance and celebrity, to be himself. That last most of all. With Emery, in a way that might not have been possible with anyone else, he could be himself. Goofy. Smart. Messed-up.

  But this—this wasn’t the same. This was someone hacking at the foundations of his life, and all the resolve John-Henry had mustered in the past was crumbling. Because it wasn’t fair. Because he was a good person, and he deserved a good life, and the price he was being asked to pay didn’t lead to a better, more enriching life. It led only to—what? He couldn’t picture it, refused to let himself. He closed his eyes. He thought of how the night had rippled outside Brey’s house, the whole world shuddering, the clack of the branches like dry bones.

  He must have dozed because the rap on the window made him jolt upright in the seat. The distant security light was still enough for him to make out a familiar silhouette.

  “Ree?”

  In answer, Emery tried the door. It was locked, and John-Henry, still waking up and not quite sure if this was a dream, fumbled to unlock it. Emery opened the door on the next try and crouched so they were at eye level. Then he pulled out a flashlight and shone it in John-Henry’s face.

  “What is happening right now?” John-Henry asked, shielding his eyes with one hand.

  “I’m inspecting you.” Emery took John-Henry’s free hand. It jostled his injured shoulder, and John-Henry hissed. Emery passed over the flashlight and directed John-Henry to hold it steady as he palpated John-Henry’s hand. “Who?”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  Emery grunted. He must have been satisfied with whatever he found because he released John-Henry’s hand, and the movement made John-Henry gasp again. Emery’s dark brows drew together. “What?”

  “It’s—”

  Emery didn’t wait for the answer. He got hold of John-Henry, turned him in the seat, and began pressing on his shoulder.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Don’t be a baby.”

  “Ah, shit, Ree! I think I separated my shoulder. What are you doing?”

  “I’m sublimating my rage by determining the extent of your injuries.”

  “Oh good, because for a minute there I thought maybe you were torturing—” He cut off with a wordless shout. His eyes watered.

  Emery released him with another of those wordless grunts. It was, to be fair, almost a shove, the force of the release rocking John-Henry in the seat. Emery took back the flashlight and shone it in John-Henry’s face again. The reek of the Port-a-Potty filtered through the night—faint because the air was too cold to carry the smell, but even a whiff was unmistakable.

  “Describe him.”

  John-Henry held his hand up again to block the light. “No.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This isn’t an interrogation. And I’m thrilled to learn you’ve found a new way to avoid dealing with your feelings, but I’m tired, and I’m hurt, and I don’t want to fight with you tonight. So, knock it off. I need my husband right now, not the ex-cop out for revenge.”

  The sound of tires on asphalt came from a long way off. The security light hummed.

  “Sublimation isn’t necessarily an unhealthy way of dealing with strong emotions.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Would you prefer I went with my first option?”

  John-Henry grinned even though he knew he shouldn’t. “Frying pan through the wall?”

  “Tire iron to the Mustang. Extensively.”

  “Ah. No, I wouldn’t prefer that.”

  “Then show some fucking gratitude for that Psychology Today article I read.”

  It was hard to tell in the dark, hard to tell with that hard, uninflected voice. But John-Henry thought if the light were a little better, he’d see one of those tiny, Emery Hazard smiles. A moment later, Emery’s hand cupped the side of his face. John-Henry leaned into the touch. Then, swinging his legs out of the car, he moved to lean against Emery, his face pressed into his side. Emery’s hand slid around to cradle the back of his head. He was warm and solid and real, and he smelled like the ridiculous body spray Colt had gotten him for Christmas, and his fingers worked against the back of John-Henry’s head in silent expression of all the pain and fear he was struggling to master.

  John-Henry pulled back. He got out of the car, stood, and met Emery’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too.”

  “I don’t feel like that conversation about Colt is resolved, but I’d like to finish it another time.”

  Maybe it was the change in position, giving him a better look at his husband, but this time John-Henry could make out the almost invisible smile. “Like not standing near a plastic bucket full of frozen human waste?”

  “That would be ideal. And another time like when I’m not—not so worked up.”

  “I think that’s reasonable.”

  “I shouldn’t have run off.”

  “You’re allowed to need time and space to yourself.”

  “Yeah, but—wait, why are you being so nice?”

  “I’m always nice.” Before John-Henry had to reply to that, Emery added, “Also, you requested your husband, who is loving and supportive. I’ll tell you later, at length, what the non-husband part of me thinks about your decisions.”

  “Shouldn’t all of you be my husband? Like, a hundred percent of you?”

  “That would be ideal, wouldn’t it?”

  A car door closed, and voices rang out in the night.

  “I’m not saying you can’t talk about penises however much you want and with whatever language you want. Dongs. Dingalings. Dingos. Dorks. Prongs. Puds. Prawns.”

  That, of course, was Shaw.

  North said, “Nobody has ever called it a prawn, dumbass.”

  “Really? It kind of looks like one. Especially when yours gets really red—”

  “It doesn’t look like a prawn! It doesn’t look like any kind of shellfish!”

  “Well, not to argue, but it does. And anyway, that’s not really the point. The point is that when you use words like sausage to talk about, er, dingalings, you’re participating in the long Western tradition that values and prioritizes the production and consumption of meat, which is intrinsically tied to the inhumane treatment of innocent animals.”

  “So, what? I can’t call them sausages without being part of Big Meat?”

  “Well, ideally, I’d like you not to refer to them as any kind of particle meat. Hot dog. Bratwurst. Weisswurst. Leberwurst. Any kind of wurst at all, actually—North, no!”

  Shaw’s outcry came moments before a loud crash.

  “All that talk about leberwurst,” North said contemplatively, “but you really should have been watching where you were walking.”

  Shaw started up again almost immediately, but John-Henry tuned him out. It was hard to tell in the shadows, but he thought Emery might be blushing.

  “It’s that stupid car,” Emery said. “He insisted on racing me.”

  More car doors slammed shut.

  “But you’d look so handsome,” Jem said.

  “I wouldn’t feel handsome,” Tean said. “I’d feel like I was participating in cultural appropriation.”

  “What culture?”

  Tean’s hesitation lasted a moment too long. “Saved by the Bell?”

  “Oh my God! You weren’t even listening to me?”

  Emery rubbed his eyes. “Don’t say anything.” He was quiet for a moment and then, his voice verging on despair, he said, “They’re never going to leave, so we’re just going to have to move. That’s our only option at this point.”

  The bell on the restaurant’s door jingled, and the voices cut off.

  “Theo and Auggie?”

  “With Evie, Lana, and Colt.”

  John-Henry considered the situation for a moment. It was one thing that Emery had driven out here to find him—admittedly, yes, in part to pick a fight, but mostly because he was worried. It was something else entirely for the other guys to come too, and the rush of emotion left him struggling to speak for a moment. Finally he managed, “I guess we’re going inside.”

  “Do we have to?”

  When they stepped inside, the first thing out of Emery’s mouth was “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  John-Henry almost didn’t hear the words. Part of that was the music—an Elvis song played at eardrum-shattering volume. And part of it was the sensory overload. The air was warm, smelling like fried onions with an undernote of sour yeastiness. Instead of ceiling lights, the restaurant was only dimly lit by wall sconces shaped like old convertibles painted a light green blue. The tables and booths were covered in vinyl checkerboard tablecloths, and although distance made it hard to be sure, John-Henry was fairly sure the salt and pepper shakers were meant to look like Dwight and Mamie Eisenhower.