“Something felt weird about those bodies. I’m going to take another look.”

  “Something felt weird.”

  “I’m definitely having flashbacks. Go check the trucks.”

  Emery left, and John-Henry moved back to the trailer’s kitchen. The smell seemed worse now, and he pulled his sweatshirt up to cover his nose and mouth. The two men lay near the center of the kitchen. The woman was farther back, near the door that led out of the trailer. John-Henry tried to play out the sequence of events. The most obvious scenario seemed to be that Vermilya had arrived, parked at the gate, and proceeded on foot. Most likely, John-Henry thought, to avoid being heard. He’d entered the trailer, found the men and woman in the kitchen, and shot them. He must have known this place, been familiar with it. If John-Henry were going out on a ledge, he’d guess that Vermilya had been trusted by these people.

  He studied the bodies, and then the blood, looking for clues that might supplement or contradict the narrative he was constructing. The two men had been shot in the head. The spray of blood and brain covered the wall and door behind them. The woman, in contrast, had been shot twice in the chest. Unlike the men, she looked like she’d taken care of herself, her blond hair—what he could see of it under the trucker hat—clean, the hat and coverall immaculate except, of course, for where she’d been shot—

  That thought brought him up short. Because it didn’t make sense for the hat and coverall to be free of spatter, not if she’d been standing behind these men when they’d been shot. Some of the spatter would have shown—on her clothes, her skin, or her hair. Most likely, on all three. On the other hand, her appearance made perfect sense if she’d heard the shots and come running, rushed through the back door, and arrived after the fact.

  John-Henry turned in place, examining the walls of the kitchen and the trailer’s narrow hallways beyond it. Blood spatter covered these walls too. No void. He shook his head and loosed a few choice swears inside his head. Then he retraced his steps to the front of the trailer, inspecting the carpet and the walls more carefully. He didn’t see any blood, so he retraced his steps.

  The fact that there wasn’t a void was significant. John-Henry didn’t consider himself an expert by any means, but he knew enough to know that a void in blood spatter suggested something had blocked the spray of droplets. Voids could indicate that something had been removed from the scene after the incident. Or, in the same vein, where the shooter had been standing. This blood spatter was behind where the shooter would have been standing. In theory, if the blood had come from the victims, then there should have been a void.

  But there wasn’t.

  Which means, John-Henry thought with a surge of the old excitement, someone else got shot.

  He crossed the kitchen again and let himself out onto the crowded deck. Unlike Emery, he didn’t lug an entire forensic laboratory with him everywhere he went, so he used the flashlight on his phone to inspect the deck. It didn’t take him long to find the drops of blood: on the plastic dinosaurs, on the bag of fertilizer, on the sun-faded boards of the deck itself. A bloody transfer pattern suggested where someone had grabbed the rail.

  And then the trail ended.

  “John?” Emery called from across the compound.

  “I think I’ve got something. Had something. I don’t know.”

  Emery came jogging back. John-Henry showed him the spatter and then the blood on the deck.

  “Fuck me.”

  “You would have seen it too.”

  Emery snorted. “I didn’t see it, John. There’s no need to be generous.” His high-powered flashlight did a much better job of illuminating the deck and the stairs down, but even with both of them looking, they couldn’t find where the trail of blood picked up again. It seemed like it ended here. “Where the fuck did this shitweasel go?”

  “There’s no way he went back through the trailer,” John-Henry said. “Not bleeding like this. I checked.”

  The only response was a grunt. John-Henry understood his husband’s frustration; it was like someone had scooped up Vermilya and carried him away—with a nice, convenient plastic tarp underneath to catch all the blood.

  John-Henry’s eyes went back to the junk on the deck. To the plastic sled propped up in the corner.

  Emery’s head came up. Those scarecrow eyes glowed when the light caught them—a flicker of winter fire. “You’re shitting me.”

  This time, John-Henry’s laugh felt like it loosened something in him. “Why not? Set it on the deck, sit, slide down the steps. The ground’s covered in ice; it wouldn’t take much to drag yourself along.”

  “We’re talking about someone who was shot.”

  “And motivated,” John-Henry said. “And, if this is the same person we’ve been dealing with for the last half a year, intelligent and disciplined and careful. Aniya told me he’s ex-military. He must have been going into shock, but he held it together and got out of here.”

  “No, not quite. He got out of the trailer. But he’s still here.”

  Before John-Henry could reply, Emery took the steps down. He ran the flashlight over the ground. The packed ice didn’t take impressions easily, not the way snow would, and John-Henry couldn’t see any tracks that indicated where the sled had passed. But it was easy to guess which way Vermilya—disoriented, injured, and rapidly losing strength—would have gone: down, following the gentle slope of the ground.

  Emery ran the beam of light in that direction.

  A sheet of the trailer’s plywood skirting stood cattywampus, one corner sticking out.

  They approached together. Emery kicked the sheet, and it toppled over. He sent the light into the crawlspace.

  The man was blond, big, and his face was white and slack, and he lay on top of a plastic sled. John-Henry looked for some trace, anything that suggested he had met this man before, but he found nothing. For a moment, John-Henry thought he was dead, and then he heard faint, labored breathing.

  “Well,” Emery said, “shit.”

  7

  The next morning, after Colt left for basketball practice, the eight of them met in the kitchen. The silence had a brooding quality, lingering over the house all morning. Now and then, Evie and Lana’s laughter from upstairs took some of the edge off. John-Henry tried to focus on that, on the taste of the peppermint creamer he’d poured into his coffee, on the familiar rhythms of their home in winter. If he tried hard enough, he could pretend he’d taken a day off work. That this was a vacation.

  “I’m not trying to be a downer,” Tean said. He sat at the table, a mug of tea wrapped in his hands. Jem stood behind him, a hand on Tean’s shoulder. “But are you sure no one saw you?”

  “It’s ok,” Shaw said. “You don’t even have to try to be a downer. It comes to you naturally.”

  “Uh.”

  “It’s a compliment,” Jem said.

  “I’m not sure—”

  “It’s definitely a compliment.” Shaw nodded along eagerly with his words. “It’s one of your five sexiest traits.”

  “I really don’t think—”

  But Jem said over him, “Top three, I think.”

  “Five sexiest traits,” North said. “I’m standing right here.”

  “Oh, you’re a downer too. I mean, not in the same sexy, my-hair-is-wild-and-my-eyes-are-the-deepest-softest-brown-and-I’ve-stared-into-the-black-cold-heart-of-the-universe way like Tean.”

  “Damn, that’s spot on,” Jem said.

  Tean twisted around. “Jem!”

  “What? I never thought about the universe’s black, cold heart.”

  “You,” Shaw said, “are more of a downer in the where-did-this-credit-card-bill-come-from-and-did-you-just-buy-those-shoes-and-I-thought-we-talked-about-this way.”

  “Because we had talked about it.”

  “It’s more of a boner killer than a boner, uh, enhancer? Inducer? Auggie, help me out here.”

  “Engorger,” Auggie said without looking up from his phone.

  Theo gave him a look.

  “What?” Auggie murmured. “I’m being helpful.”

  “He’s being very helpful,” Shaw agreed. “In fact, helpfulness is one of Auggie’s top ten sexiest traits—”

  “I’m right fucking here!”

  “Everyone stop talking,” Emery barked. He gave a kind of universal glare, and then, in a more controlled voice, said, “We were as careful as possible.” And he gave John-Henry a look that left no doubt how he felt about what that sentence actually meant.

  North had scored the STILL GAY mug, beating Jem to it by a hair, and he picked it up now to take a noisy swallow of coffee—the words on the mug pointed in Jem’s direction—before saying, “And Shaw and I cleaned up their mess.”

  “Hardly.”

  But it was, technically, true. After finding the man known as Jace Vermilya under the trailer, John-Henry and Emery had, well, run. Their options had been limited at that point, and the risks had increased tremendously. North and Shaw had stayed to do a quick pass, making sure no obvious sign of their presence had been left behind before calling in the shooting from a burner. Emery had taken John-Henry’s shoes before he’d gotten in the Mustang, to dispose of the shoes and gloves where an inconvenient search wouldn’t turn them up. Then, in stockinged feet, John-Henry had driven home. The night that followed had felt impossibly long, given the few hours remaining. His sleep had been fractured, his dreams full of jagged edges, and he’d woken sandy eyed, his whole body a pain point.

  Tean squirmed a little. “But there are traffic lights and security cameras and neighbors, and it’s a small town, and people know each other—”

  Jem squeezed Tean’s shoulder, and he cut off, unhappiness creasing his forehead.

  “Talk about a boner killer,” North muttered into the mug.

  “Got something to say?” Jem asked.

  North took another long—and loud—drink of coffee as he scratched his temple with his middle finger.

  “This is uncharted territory,” Emery began.

  “Everyone’s trying to be kind,” John-Henry said. “But we all know Tean’s right. Last night, we took a huge risk.” Tiny ripples spread through the peppermint coffee, so he released the mug and folded his arms to hide his hands. “I want you to know that if things go wrong, I’m going to take full responsibility. I want you to keep your mouths shut and let me—”

  “Good Christ,” North said. “Does he always act like this?”

  “He has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility,” Emery said drily.

  “How do you fuck?”

  Jem burst out laughing.

  John-Henry’s arms tightened across his chest. “I appreciate that you—”

  “It’s a legitimate question,” North said over him. “He’s so fucking righteous and respectable and shit, how do you ever push his face into the mattress and dick him down?”

  Tean’s eyes were huge. Shaw had melted off the chair in giggles. Auggie appeared to be hyperventilating into Theo’s shirt, and Theo, stroking Auggie’s back, was covering his mouth with one hand.

  Even Emery was smiling—crooked, maybe even a bit wry. “We take turns.”

  “Emery Hazard!”

  The rest of the jackasses cracked up even harder.

  “What?”

  John-Henry couldn’t help the disbelieving laugh that broke free. He swatted Emery’s arm. Then again. Emery warded him off, chuckling.

  “What?” he asked again.

  “What are you—how can you—shut up!”

  Emery’s grin spread. Somehow, all that swatting turned into John-Henry tucked under Emery’s arm. Emery kissed his hair. John-Henry wasn’t sure the last time he’d blushed, but he felt fifteen years old all over again.

  When the collective dumbasses had regained a semblance of control, John-Henry realized they were waiting for him to say something. He shot North a dirty look, and then said, “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. To any of you. I love you guys. This is my—”

  “Five bucks he says responsibility,” Jem said.

  Tean slapped his hand, and a grin exploded across Jem’s face.

  “Five bucks Emery gets a stiffy,” North muttered.

  John-Henry grappled for what he wanted to say, but finally he said, “I don’t know what I want to say.”

  The words were meant for Emery, but of course, the peanut gallery had to chime in.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” Theo said.

  “We love you too,” Shaw said. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “After,” Auggie said, “when this is all over, you can buy us a beer and say thanks. That’s all you’ve got to say.”

  John-Henry shook his head. He was surprised how thick his voice felt, how difficult it was to say, “Thank you.”

  Emery kissed his hair again, drawing John-Henry tight against him. Then he said, “This is all well and good, but it doesn’t address the fact that my grocery bill has quadrupled, or the fact that there’s not one fucking corner of this house where I can get five seconds of privacy.”

  “What fucking grocery bill?” North said. “Buy some fucking tortilla chips. Buy some fucking cheese.” He turned to the other men. “You know what he’s got in the fridge? A bag of pre-shredded, store-brand cheddar.”

  “No,” Jem murmured in what John-Henry hoped was mock outrage.

  “Yeah,” North said. “It’s a fucking debacle.”

  “I’m not sure now is the best time—” Tean began.

  “I’ve been checking the local news all morning,” Auggie said, “but there’s nothing about anybody called Jace Vermilya—holy shit.” He sat up straight and turned his phone to show the others. “Is this him?”

  The photo showed a blond, blue-eyed man receiving an award at some kind of ceremony. The suit didn’t hide the fact that he was a big guy, and he had the neck and shoulders of an action hero. When John-Henry had seen him the night before, his lips had been blue with the cold.

  The room quieted.

  “I know that dude,” Jem said. “I’ve seen him before.”

  “He was at the Cottonmouth Club,” Auggie said. “I saw him arguing with Gid the night I went there. Him and Eric—remember, I told you I’d seen Eric there?”

  “We remember, pint-size,” North said, but his voice was subdued. “You’re sure?”

  Auggie nodded, but it was Jem who spoke: “It’s totally him. He was there the night I met up with DeVoy.”

  “Well, that’s something,” Emery said. “Now we know there’s a connection. Whoever this guy is, he’s not a good citizen who’s made a terrible mistake, and he’s not a pawn who’s been coerced or manipulated into perjuring himself. He’s part of this.”

  “So, what happened last night?” Tean asked.

  Auggie made a beckoning motion. “Let me see the other ones.”

  Emery produced his burner phone and displayed the close-ups of the shooting victims from the meth lab. Auggie shook his head, his mouth curling into a moue as he studied first the smaller man, then the bigger one. When he swiped to the woman, though, he said, “That’s her!”

  “That’s who—” Jem began, and then he said, “No fucking way. She was at the club too. Real hard-ass vibe. She had a bunch of guys hanging around.”

  “Her name’s Ingra—I don’t know, Ingra something. I looked her up when we were trying to find Shaniyah. Theo, remember?”

  Theo nodded slowly. “I remember seeing her. I don’t remember the charges, but I remember thinking she looked like she was Ozark Volunteers. Or maybe a motorcycle club—didn’t we talk about that?”

  But Auggie only stared at the phone and said again, “Holy shit.”

  “Something’s wrong,” Shaw said.

  “You can say that again,” North muttered.

  “What does this mean?” Tean said. “Why would they shoot each other?”

  “An excellent question,” Emery said, cutting his eyes to John-Henry.

  “It could be a lot of reasons.” John-Henry spread empty hands. “They had some sort of deal, and it went wrong. Or they were tweaking, and things got out of control.”

  Emery made a noise of dissent and shook his head. “Occam’s razor.”

  “See,” North said, “he’s finally starting to get all growly and bad ass, and then he opens his mouth and something like that dribbles out.”

  Jem asked, “For those of us who don’t know, probably just me, what is Occam’s razor? And is it better than my Wahl?”

  Emery gave him a flat look to show what he thought of the second question, and then he said, “Occam’s razor: all things being equal, the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. In this case, John is positing that a man known to be connected to the Cottonmouth Club, who was involved in a shooting that involved a woman connected to the Cottonmouth Club, had some separate criminal activity going on unrelated to this attempt to frame John. That means multiplying all sorts of factors. Instead, it’s simpler—and more likely—that everything is connected.”

  “Ree—”

  “Why wouldn’t it be? Since the beginning, we’ve known that whoever was behind this operation, they were involved in a range of criminal activities. We knew that they had a wildlife trafficking operation. Jem also found controlled substances, legal documents, jewelry. Criminal organizations involved in human trafficking don’t usually limit themselves to moving people illegally from place to place. Drugs, sex work, and yes, animals. It’s all connected. In this case, we’re seeing the drug angle—the Ozark Volunteers are one of the major producers and distributors of methamphetamine in the state.”

  Jem raised his hand.

  “Yes?” Emery said.

  Jem pointed at Tean.

  Tean shifted in his seat, shrugged, and said, “I don’t know if this means anything, but—but when I reached out to some colleagues this morning, they told me they’ve had a lot of strange reports.”

  “Strange how?”

  “Well, someone found a tiger cub in a dumpster.”

  Shaw opened his mouth, and Jem rushed to say, “It was fine. Someone found it before it froze to death.”

  “A python in a woman’s pantry,” Tean said. “A macaw flew right into this old man’s window. It’s not unheard of for people to release exotic animals once they realize that they don’t have the means or knowledge to adequately care for them. Every once in a while, you’ll hear about someone spotting a lion walking across their yard, something crazy like that. But this has been…a lot.”