“Did you take a call from Eric Brey when you were working last night?”

  Braxton’s face shut down. “Look, man, I don’t know who you are—”

  “I know. And I’m not trying to jam you up or get you in trouble or anything like that. It’s just a question. You know those calls are public record. You know I can find out the answer another way if I have to.”

  “Then that’s what you should do. Call the station. Ask for the records. Not show up at my storage unit—”

  “That’s going to take too long,” Emery said.

  “Ree.”

  “No, he needs to understand. This is important, and we don’t have time to wait for some bureaucrat to get his thumb out of his ass long enough to look at a Sunshine Law request. Things are happening right now, important things, life-and-death things, and every minute he dicks us around, we’re losing ground. It’s an easy question, and it’s not one that costs you anything, so answer him.”

  Braxton’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling and uncurling around the tumbler.

  “He meant to say please,” John said. “But he’s right, Braxton. This is important, and we don’t have time to wait for official channels.”

  The hardness in Braxton’s face cracked. “Who are you, though?”

  “Private investigators,” Emery answered.

  “I’m a police officer,” John said.

  “John.”

  “And I’m suspended, and that means I can’t do what I’m best at, and it’s driving me out of my fucking mind. I think you know what that’s like, Braxton. And I think you’ve got a good sense for people, a good sense for bullshit. You spend your nights listening to people and making decisions about what they tell you. Well, listen to me right now: lives are on the line, and I need you to help me.”

  Somewhere distant in the facility, metal flexed and boomed, the sound echoing down the concrete corridor. Braxton rolled his shoulder once—the bad one, Emery thought.

  “Mr. Brey called a little before five.”

  “You know Brey?” Emery asked. “The way you said that, it sounds like you recognized his name.”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, it’s a small town. Everybody knows him.”

  “All right,” John said. “What did he say?”

  “He wanted an officer to come out right away.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “He said he thought he saw a prowler.” Braxton frowned. “I asked him what he’d seen, you know, details, but he got agitated and started demanding I send someone over.”

  “And?”

  “And I sent Bonilla to check it out.”

  “Did Brey stay on the line?”

  “No, he said he wasn’t going to wait on the phone, then he disconnected.”

  Emery frowned. “Is that unusual?”

  “I don’t know. Not necessarily, I guess.”

  “But?”

  Braxton reached for his coffee again, but this time, he didn’t drink. “I don’t know,” he said again. “He sounded scared. I told him to stay on the call until an officer showed up, but he didn’t want to. So maybe it was a little weird, yeah.”

  “What happened when Bonilla showed up?” John asked.

  “Oh, she didn’t. She had just gotten out of a domestic, and the chief got on the air and said he’d handle it.”

  “Cassidy?” Emery said.

  Braxton nodded.

  “Why would he do that?” John asked.

  “Well, you know how it is. It’s a small town, Brey’s a big deal, the chief likes the personal touch. Plus like I said, Bonilla was just getting out of a domestic. The chief must have been in the area and figured he’d pick up the call.”

  Emery grimaced and saw some of the same frustration on John’s face. What Braxton was describing wasn’t unheard of—in Wahredua, for example, when Cravens had been chief, she’d been known to take a call if she wanted to make a point or if she thought it needed special handling. And Wahredua was bigger than Auburn by a fair margin, which meant in a town this size, with an even smaller force, it might even be common for the chief to pitch in when the other officers were unavailable or were getting run off their feet. None of that changed the fact, though, that Brey had called 911 for help, Cassidy had jumped in to take the call, and now Brey was dead.

  “But he didn’t say why?” Emery asked. “He didn’t explain why he was taking it?”

  Braxton gave a little laugh, eyes crinkling. “Well, no. But does your chief always explain everything he does?”

  John must have seen something on Emery’s face because he rolled his eyes. “No,” he said, “I guess he doesn’t. Did Cassidy radio back after he checked out the property?”

  “Sure. He told me to close it; false alarm.”

  Emery thought he could hear, far off, the water in the harbor: the open-and-close of those gray shark’s teeth.

  “What?” Braxton asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” John said. “That’s what we needed to know. You didn’t hear from Mr. Brey again last night?”

  “No,” Braxton said slowly. “Honestly, I didn’t even think about him. We got another call, a girl who died from carbon monoxide poisoning, and after that—hey, what’s going on? I’m getting a seriously weird vibe about this.”

  “I’m not sure yet,” John said. “You’ve been a big help, Braxton. Thank you.”

  “Yeah? It doesn’t feel like I helped. I feel like I screwed something up.”

  John shook his head. “You did your job. And you helped us. Listen, we might have additional questions. Could we get your number just in case?”

  With a miserable nod, Braxton said, “You’re going to talk to the chief about this, aren’t you?”

  “It might come to that. We won’t tell him that you talked to us—”

  Braxton shook his head. His hand was tight around the tumbler, and he shifted his weight. “He’s gone.”

  “What?”

  “The chief. He said he was taking some personal time. A vacation.” He stared at them, like maybe they weren’t getting it. “Chief Cassidy left Auburn this morning.”

  15

  They drove back to Wahredua, and when they got home, the house was dark. Up and down the block, other houses were bright with holiday lights, windows aglow. Cars lined the streets. Across from them, silhouettes moved inside Mr. Tomlinson’s house. It was the holiday season, after all, and everyone else in the world was living their normal lives, gathering and celebrating.

  Emery waited until the garage door had rattled down. John still had his hands wrapped around the steering wheel. The only light came from the bulb in the garage door opener, and the glow it shed was dim and yellow, but the skin across John’s knuckles looked tight.

  “It’s not the end of the road,” Emery said.

  John shook his head and barked a tiny laugh. “He’s not coming back, Ree.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “We don’t?”

  Emery didn’t have an answer for that.

  When John released the steering wheel, it creaked, and the sound felt loud in the stillness. He rubbed his face.

  “Tomorrow,” Emery tried, “we’ll—”

  “This alleged witness, Vermilya, who is somehow tied to all these other pieces of shit, he’s clinging to life in a hospital bed behind a police protection detail.” John ticked off a finger. “That woman, Ingra, she and her cooks are dead.” He ticked off another. “Eric Brey is dead, and I was standing right fucking there, Ree, and I ran away!” The last words were a shout. Then John’s shoulders slumped, and he took off the Cardinals cap and ran his fingers through his hair. “And now our only other lead is gone. I’m starting to understand why Gideon Moss blew his brains out rather than deal with these people.”

  “John—”

  But John got out of the car and slammed the door.

  Emery followed him inside. The smell of cinnamon and pastry dough met them, the house warm and quiet and dark. The only light came from the microwave above the stove, and it turned John into ink strokes as he moved across the kitchen, leaned over the sink, and stared out the window. The dark brushwork of his shoulders, his back, his hip. And then the gold leaf of his hair.

  “Cassidy can’t just disappear,” Emery said. “He’s not smart enough. He’ll use a credit card, or he’ll show up on a traffic camera, or he’ll try to get on a flight. We’ll find him.”

  John shook his head. The light foiled over his hair, caught the shell of his ear, gave a suggestion of his jaw.

  “And when we do—”

  “Ree, he’s dead. How do you not understand that? You’re right: Cassidy isn’t smart. And somebody—this guy from Brey’s house, somebody else, I don’t know—somebody is cleaning house, and Cassidy is a loose end. He was useful. Now he’s not. And he’s dead. That’s it, that’s the end.”

  “It’s not the end. We’ve still got Vermilya—”

  John’s shoulders moved in a way Emery found strange until he realized, with a shock, it was silent laughter. John put his hands over his face again, but they came down almost immediately to curl around the stainless-steel apron of the sink. “Can we please not?”

  “He’s a valuable lead. Besides, there are other things we haven’t tried, other avenues—”

  “Ree, for fuck’s sake!” The shout echoed through the stillness of the house. When he spoke again, his voice was tempered. “Can you just not? Not right now.”

  Maybe it was the darkness of the house. Maybe his eyes were having trouble adjusting. The dimensions of the room seemed skewed, and Emery fought the desire to put out a hand, find a wall, stabilize himself. He barely heard John when he spoke again.

  “It is just so fucking unfair.”

  Emery opened his mouth.

  The front door opened, and heavy, staggering steps moved into the house.

  John bent his head, and the movement carried him out of the light from the microwave. The gold fire of his hair went out, and he was just a shadow.

  “A few more steps, bruh,” Ashley said and grunted.

  Colt made an inarticulate noise full of pain.

  The sound galvanized Emery, and he moved into the living room as two shadowy shapes stumbled out of the entry hall. He found a light, flipped it on, and stared.

  The boys were dressed for a night out, and a distant part of Emery recognized that no one had told him, that he had sent Colt to Ashley’s house under the belief that they would stay home. Instead, Colt was dressed in a black button-up, black trousers, and the ridiculous velvet drivers that every teenage boy seemed determined to wear. He’d somehow managed to sneak John’s camel-hair coat out of the closet without anyone noticing, and now something dark stained the fabric in a long smear. Ashley looked similarly done up, in a hunter green blazer that was, apparently, velvet, a white button-up, and gray trousers. His velvet drivers matched the blazer, of course. Food covered his shirt and blazer—a red sauce, a stray noodle, a gob of something that might have been ice cream. In spite of the mess, both boys looked strikingly adult, like young men instead of boys, and on another night, it probably would have simultaneously broken Emery’s heart and made him unspeakably pleased to see.

  Instead, he focused on his son: one eye swelling shut, blood caked around his nose, a split lip. Colt couldn’t seem to stand up straight. He had one hand pressed to his ribs, and Ashley seemed to be bearing most of his weight.

  “Mr. Hazard,” Ashley said, his voice breaking.

  Emery took Colt from him and helped his son to the sofa. Colt gasped in pain as Emery eased him down. He squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall back.

  “John!”

  “Jesus,” John said behind him. “We’ve got to get him to the ER.”

  Colt’s eyes flew open. “No!” He struggled to sit up. “I’m fine!”

  With one hand on Colt’s chest, Emery forced him back down. “Pull the Odyssey out of the garage. It’ll be easier to load him in from the driveway.”

  John nodded and went to grab the keys.

  Biscuit slunk across the room; she looked like she’d just woken up, but she pressed herself against the sofa, trying to get as close to Colt as she could without actually climbing on top of him.

  “Pops, no, please.” Colt was still trying to sit up. He’d already come into his full height, and he was strong—a far cry from the half-starved boy who had appeared on their doorstep more than a year before. But right then, he might have been a child again, too hurt to dislodge Emery’s hand and sit up. “I’m fine. Ash, tell him I’m fine.”

  Ashley was crying and wiping his cheeks.

  “What happened?”

  Colt closed his eyes.

  “Colt,” Emery barked.

  The boy shook his head.

  “What is that supposed to mean? Open your eyes and talk to me. This is serious, Colt. Someone hurt you. What in the world is going on?”

  Colt’s eyes opened a crack. Tears glimmered. His voice was thick but steady as he said, “Nobody hurt me. I fell.”

  “You fell? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  “Ree!” John’s shocked cry came from the stairs.

  “Are you listening to this?”

  “Go outside.”

  Emery straightened. “What did you say to me?”

  John met his gaze and tossed the van’s keys. Emery caught them out of the air without breaking his glare.

  “Go outside,” John said, his voice low and hard. “Right now.”

  A wild noise caught in Emery’s throat. He grabbed Ashley by the arm and towed the boy out of the house. The cold felt wild too, the wind slashing at them, pulling on Emery’s hair, slicing at exposed skin. Ashley shrank inside his blazer. Some of his hair had fallen loose, and it hung in front of his face. In the weak light, the rich auburn color had been stripped to gray.

  “Talk,” Emery said.

  “Mr. Hazard—”

  “You’re covered in food, you’re scared out of your mind, and you brought my son home injured after I trusted you with him!” The shout echoed up and down the street. Ashley tried to pull away, but Emery tightened his grip. “What happened?”

  “We went to Tucker’s. You know, the steakhouse.” Ashley started to cry. He wasn’t fighting now, but Emery didn’t relax his grip. He was aware, distantly, that his fingers were biting into Ashley’s arm. That it must hurt. Good, that distant part of him thought. “We made reservations months ago so it would be special, and my parents said it would be ok if we went straight there and came back, and—and he’s been so worried lately, and then everything with basketball, I just wanted him to have one good night.”

  Ashley wiped tears away with his free hand. He snuffled, sounding like he was on the verge of full-on sobs.

  Emery released the boy’s arm and flexed stiff fingers. “What happened?”

  “There were some kids there. Some other kids, I mean. And I knew they wanted to start something with Colt, and Colt wanted to start something too, but the restaurant was busy, and I figured if we just ate and left, nothing would happen. Then Colt went to the bathroom, and after a while, when he didn’t come back, I went to make sure he was ok. They were—they’d followed him.”

  It was strange, Emery thought, that on such a cold night, he could be sweating. That his cheeks could feel so hot. “Who were they?”

  “Mr. Hazard, please. He made me promise not to tell.”

  “Do you know why?”

  Ashley blinked. He ran his arm under his nose, sniffling.

  “He is protecting them, Ashley, because they threatened to do the same thing to you if he told. Do you understand that? He is doing this for you. So, I’m going to ask you one more time who did this, and I want you to think long and hard about how you feel about my son.”

  Ashley was crying harder now, and when he finally spoke, the words were almost unintelligible.

  But Emery recognized the names.

  “Go inside,” he said. “Help John get him to the hospital.”

  Sobbing, Ashley stumbled toward the front door.

  Emery got in the van. He backed out of the driveway. He eased past the cars lined up on either side of the street, past the partygoers, past everyone living their safe, normal, happy lives. He drove out into the black of a dying day. And as he drove, he called Tucker’s.

  “Yes, that party is still here,” the maître d’ said when he came back to the phone. “Would you like me to give them a message?”

  “Sure,” Emery said. “Tell them I’m on my way.”

  16

  John-Henry had learned a long time ago to trust his gut, and right then, as he raced to catch up with Emery, his gut told him something terrible was about to happen. Luck. Luck. Please, he thought, let me be lucky again. All the luck of his golden life, which had run dry over the last few months—maybe it had been saved up for tonight. Because tonight, he needed to be lucky, or Emery might literally kill someone.

  He’d been lucky so far, or lucky enough, anyway. Lucky that Jem and Tean had gotten home when they had, and lucky that they’d been willing to take Colt and Ashley to the emergency room while he went after his husband. Lucky that the roads had been empty of traffic, clear of ice, that the Mustang had felt weightless as he’d dropped the accelerator.

  And now here he was, the roadside steakhouse glowing like a beacon, windows warm with yellow light, and he might not be too late.

  When John-Henry pulled into Tucker’s parking lot, the Odyssey was parked at the curb, directly in front of the restaurant. Leave it to Emery to find a way to make even his parking dramatic. John-Henry pulled the Mustang behind the van and ran.

  Inside, the restaurant was a pressure cooker: too hot, too loud, too many bodies crowding every available space. Men and women dressed for an evening out laughed over drinks as they spilled out into the vestibule. A crush of people surrounded the bar, hands outstretched as voices called out orders. The smell of seared meat mixed with the cutting sharpness of juniper, a hint of musky perfume, wool warmed by sweat and friction.

  John-Henry pushed through the throng near the entrance, ignoring angry shouts and gasps of outrage as he forced a path into the restaurant. A man in a tux glared at him from behind a wooden stand and said, “Excuse me, sir—”