by Gregory Ashe
Walking now, with the air smelling like a bonfire and the reddish-orange flames winking out of a backyard chimenea, Hazard tried to do what he always did: parcel out his emotions, deal with them when it was convenient, and let logic guide him. But everything hurt too much. Not just the job, although that still hurt. With enough time, Hazard thought he might have been ok about the job. Somers had helped. The private investigation angle, that had helped.
Or rather, it had helped right up until the moment it hadn’t. Because, if Emery Hazard was done bullshitting himself, he had to admit that failing Rory and Phil had sent him into the worst spiral of his life. And it wasn’t only about the horrible deaths those men had met. It was partially about—and here, Hazard knew he was a fucking asshole, just about the worst piece of shit out there—but it was also partially about his ego.
He had been too slow. He had been too stupid. He had lost whatever psychotic game the killer had wanted him to play.
When Hazard reached Market Street, he stopped. At night, a confetti of lights brightened shopfronts and apartment buildings. The wind came off the Grand Rivere, licking his sweat until Hazard shivered and tucked his hands into his armpits. A few blocks down, the red-and-white sign of a CVS flickered with a bad bulb.
So don’t be an asshole, a voice said within Hazard. It sounded a little like Somers, but a more brutal version. Don’t be an asshole, just stop. Stop letting it be about you. Stop letting it be about your ego. You became a detective to protect people. To help people. Maybe it’s time to let it be about them.
What happened next wasn’t easy, wasn’t simple, wasn’t straightforward. Wasn’t, as far as Hazard could tell, maybe even permanent. But he did his best: he boxed up the bruised ego, packed away his self-pity, and tried to look the future in the eyes.
He was going to find the bastard who had murdered Phil and Rory.
He was going to keep doing what he did best: helping people by solving problems that nobody else could solve.
And most importantly, he was going to make things better with Somers.
He walked towards the CVS, already fishing out his wallet. He bought what he needed; he went home, flipping on lights as he went through the house, and locked himself in the downstairs bathroom. He took his time. He had watched videos, of course. He knew, more or less, the basic principles. And it didn’t have to be perfect, not right now. It just had to be a step in the right direction.
When he climbed the stairs, they groaned under him. The floorboards in the hall creaked. At the bedroom door, he stopped, hands on the frame, like an astronaut bracing to launch himself into space. No air. No fucking air, just a vacuum pulling the last breath from his lungs.
Somers lay on the bed, book propped against his knees. Blue eyes flicked over and held. They widened slowly, and Somers scrambled to his feet, the book sliding to the floor, forgotten.
“I know you don’t want to see me right now,” Hazard said. “But I just have one thing to say.”
Somers kept moving: shifting his weight, his hands coming to his belly, his chest, his face, wrapping his arms around himself and then shifting his weight again. Finally his hands came down to his sides, curling into fists.
“John—” Hazard stopped himself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come up here. I’ll talk to you when you’re ready.”
“No. Say what you want to say. Just fucking say it.”
“You’re upset—”
“Just fucking say it.” Harsh breaths. “Right now, if that’s not too fucking much to ask.”
Hazard lingered at the door. And then he took off, launching himself into outer space, pure fucking terror building his speed until he almost crashed into Somers. He stood there, so close he could smell the crushed amber of Somers’s cologne, the sea salt, his skin and hair.
“You were right,” Hazard said.
Somers turned, pushing at Hazard, trying to get past him.
“John, come on. John?” And then Hazard couldn’t help himself anymore, couldn’t control himself, couldn’t restrain himself. He wrapped an arm around Somers, cupped his face, forcing Somers to look at him. “John, come on. Please.”
“Just say it,” Somers managed to spit out. “Just say it, you want a break or you’re done or you’re, I don’t know, you’re so depressed you’re taking off, going to find yourself. But just say it.”
Hazard stared at him, uncomprehending at first. Then he started to laugh.
“You think because I—”
“Don’t laugh at me, you big asshole. You shaved. And you cut your hair. And you look so fucking beautiful I could die, and you came up here to tell me you’re done or you want a change, so just say it.” Somers hammered the heel of his hand into Hazard’s chest, trying to force a way free, his voice rising. “Just say it. Just fucking say it.”
“I’m not done.”
“You want a break.”
“I don’t want a break.”
“You want to go find yourself. You’re going to bang your way through every pretty boy in Europe.”
“I do not want to find myself,” Hazard said, his hands sliding down, his arms taking Somers around the waist, pulling him against his chest. Somers resisted for another moment, and then something inside him seemed to break, and he relaxed into Hazard. “Finding yourself is hippy bullshit.”
Somers laughed into Hazard’s shirt, but it sounded more like a sob; the heat of his face was like a brand.
“I thought you’d be happy,” Hazard said, running his hand over Somers’s hair, enjoying the tufts and spikes that brushed his palm. “I thought you’d like it if I cleaned up.”
Shoving away from Hazard, Somers studied him, eyes narrowed as he ran a hand across Hazard’s freshly-shaved cheek, as he caught one of the locks that fell just past Hazard’s chin now.
“What did you cut this with? A cleaver?”
“It’s hair,” Hazard said with a shrug.
“You can get a haircut for ten bucks at that place inside the Walmart.”
“It’s hair, John. I bought some scissors at CVS.” Another shrug. “I just wanted it shorter.”
“We’re getting you a real haircut.”
“You don’t like it?”
Hazard expected a laugh or a joke, but Somers drew a breath and squared his shoulders. He took another long look and nodded slowly. “I like it. It’s you, but it’s not you. I mean, not the you who came back a year ago. Your hair’s a lot longer, even after the cut.” Now, briefly, a smile flashed out. “Too long for regulations.”
“No more regulations.”
Somers nodded slowly again.
“I’m not the guy who came back a year ago. A lot of that has to do with the job—”
“Ree—”
“No, please.” He waited, and Somers shut his mouth with a grimace. “Some of it has to do with me still . . . dealing with what happened at the Haverford, everything with Mikey. But most of it has to do with the job, John. That’s who I was. It was almost entirely who I was. I don’t even know if I can explain it, but it let me be myself even when everything around me, when it was all going to shit.”
“But it’s not really—”
“Jesus Christ,” Hazard growled, barreling into Somers until he had him pinned against the wall, one big hand coming up to catch Somers’s jaw. Hazard held him like that, his fingers curled against Somers’s golden skin, one finger across Somers’s lips. “Can I finish a fucking sentence?”
Somers rolled his eyes and squeaked something that sounded like, “One.”
“It’s not who I am anymore. But you’re right: I can be a lot more. With you, I mean.” Hazard swallowed. “If you still want me after the way I’ve been acting, after . . . after being so awful to you.”
Somers raised his hand like a kid in class.
Hazard nodded.
Slowly, Somers peeled Hazard’s fingers away. Then he made a big show of it, working his jaw like he’d been in a muzzle
, cracking his neck.
Hazard felt the growl building in his throat.
“With Evie,” Somers said, trying to hide a flash of smile.
It took a moment for Hazard to process that. “I haven’t been awful to Evie.”
“No, dumbass. I mean, your life means a lot more with me. And with Evie.”
“Yeah,” Hazard said. “Yeah, with Evie.”
“And with Noah and Rebeca. And with the people at work who still want to be your friend, Moraes and Foley and even Carmichael, believe it or not.”
“I don’t think they—Jesus fuck, John.”
Somers held the lock of Hazard’s hair he had just pulled and smiled. “No disagreeing. You’re still apologizing.”
Hazard wasn’t even sure what to call the noise in his throat. “I’m running out of apologies. Do that again and I will tan your fucking hide.”
Somers smiled, but the smile faded. “You can’t do this again. Try to handle it on your own, I mean. Block me out.”
“I won’t.”
“No more making me breakfast. If you make me breakfast again, I’m calling 911. You can sit in a cell for a few days and think about what you’ve done.”
Hazard felt a smile try to break his façade. “No more breakfast.”
“And if I so much as see you go near a home improvement project—”
Hazard stopped him with a kiss. And then another. On the third kiss, Somers thumped against the wall, and Hazard just kissed harder.
When Hazard pulled back, Somers blinked and ran his tongue across his lips. “What was I saying?”
“No more handyman shit.”
“Right. That.”
Cupping Somers’s face again, Hazard said, “John, I know I shouldn’t. I know it sounds desperate and unattractive. Maybe it sounds psycho. Maybe it means I’m really not well, really in need of help, like, I’m not a complete person or some shit like that, but—”
“What are you talking about?”
“I need you.”
For a moment, Somers stared at him. “What?”
“I need you. I need you so much that it hurts me sometimes. I need you like I’ve never needed someone in my life.”
Another moment passed. Hazard waited for the tears, the soft kisses, the acknowledgment.
Somers snorted, pushed his way free of Hazard, and started toward the bedroom door.
“You are such a dumbass sometimes,” he called over his shoulder. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
“John, did you hear what I said? I need you. I am totally, inconceivably fucking dependent on you. Sometimes I need you so much that it feels like I’m being ripped apart inside.”
“Yeah, dummy. It’s called being in love.” He rolled a finger, the come on motion. “I love you too. Now, let’s go.”
“Go where?” Hazard grabbed Somers’s arm and took a look at the bed. “I’m still—uh, not everything is, um, back to normal. But I kind of wanted to, for us to, you know.”
Somers just shook his head, as though disappointed. “Fuck?”
“Or cuddle,” Hazard said, heat rushing into his cheeks.
“Nope. We’ve got things to do. Come on.”
“John,” Hazard said, hearing the whine in his voice as Somers headed for the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
NOVEMBER 11
SUNDAY
10:11 PM
HAZARD WAS TRYING TO figure out what was happening. They drove for less than five minutes before Somers stopped the Mustang on Market Street, just a few blocks from the Crofter’s Mark building where they had first lived together. This end of the riverfront section was noticeably in need of repairs; upriver, Saint Taffy’s and Riverside Burgers and boutiques and antique shops had revitalized the river district. But here, on this stretch, the storefronts were empty, the paint peeling, and rusting roller shutters covered glass to deter anyone who might think of breaking in—although only God knew why someone might want to.
A faded sign stood in the middle of the block. At night, it was difficult to read, especially with the closest street lights failing. But Hazard thought he could make out the words: A New City Brought to You by InnovateMidwest.
“Yeah,” Somers said, noticing Hazard’s focus on the sign. “This is one of the properties they bought up and then abandoned.”
“Why are we here?”
Somers nodded at the building and got out of the car.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Hazard grumbled as he followed.
At a narrow doorway set into the side of a building that had once sold shoes—Hazard vaguely remembered his mother bringing him here as a child, once, for what she called “church shoes”—Somers produced a set of keys, unlocked a padlock, and swung open the iron gate. A second key unlocked the door, and when Somers opened it, Hazard saw a flight of stairs.
Somers turned on the flashlight on his phone and gave Hazard an apologetic look. “It still needs work.” Then, before Hazard could ask what he meant, he took the stairs two at a time. He took out a third key on the landing at the top and opened the only door.
The room inside was surprisingly spacious, almost taking up the length of the building. Two doors were closed, and the only other object in sight was a forgotten canvas drop cloth that lay on the floor near the window. Somers played the flashlight around the room: dust, cobwebs, a crack in the glass. Then he walked the length of the room, motioning for Hazard to follow, and opened the first door. It led into a bathroom with ancient porcelain fixtures that might have come out of one of the Saw movies Somers was always trying to get Hazard to watch. Then Somers took a few steps and opened the second door.
It was a private office, Hazard realized. As dirty and dusty as the rest of the space. Only with a desk. A beautiful desk. A new desk. Approximately the size of a battleship, solid wood, excellent craftsmanship. Hazard’s heart started to pound.
There was something on the middle of the desk. A single white rectangle interrupting the smooth glow of the polished wood. Somers gave an impatient jerk of his head.
Hazard picked up the card, careful not to bend the corners, not to do anything clumsy. Careful, he reminded himself, maybe for the last time. Careful.
He recognized the card, of course.
Emery Hazard. Private Investigator.
“You’ll have to get more printed,” Somers said, “with the address and the phone number and email and fax.”
The thump of Hazard’s heart made it difficult to hear the words. He turned around slowly. Somers was smiling, but behind the smile, his eyes kept cutting away, and he was hugging himself with the arm that didn’t hold the light.
“Where did you get the desk?”
“You want to talk about the desk?”
“It looks expensive. We can’t afford the desk.”
“I stole it.” Somers shrugged. “You’ve seen my parents’ house. I don’t even know if my dad will miss it. Foley helped me get it into Moraes’s truck, and then I had to bribe those bastards with enough beer to float an armada to get them to help me carry it up here.”
“We can’t afford this place. The rent. We can’t afford the rent.”
“You don’t know how much it costs.”
“It doesn’t matter; we can’t afford it.”
“Do you like it?”
“It doesn’t matter; we can’t—”
“Ree,” Somers said, his voice nervy and thin. “Do you like it?”
The old reaction, the defensive turn, was still there: What’s there to like? The spiders? The dry rot? The heating bill that those drafty windows are going to cost me? But Hazard managed to suppress it at the last moment.
“John, this is very sweet. It means—” Hazard stopped. His big hands worked restlessly against his jeans. “It means a lot. But we can’t afford this. We just bought the house. Two new cars.”
“The Odyssey doesn’t count as a new car.”
“F
urniture. Moving expenses. Repairs. And I’m not working, so we’re doing all of that on your income. We can’t do it. It’s so sweet, but we can’t.”
“Talk about money one more time, and I’m going to lose my mind. Just tell me if you like it. If you want it. Fuck money. I’ll go work as the night clerk at the Kum and Go, and don’t make any dumb jokes about how I’ll be an expert at coming and going based on your experience or anything stupid like that.”
“I don’t want you to come and go. I never have.”
“Ree, I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m kind of out on a limb here.”
Hazard dried his hands on his jeans again. He counted to thirty, and then he thought he could trust his voice. “I’m not taking another client, John. And I’m not opening an agency. I was stupid; I never should have tried to help Mitchell. All I did was get him stabbed and almost killed, and I couldn’t even manage to—”
“What are you going to do about that?”
“I’m going to find whoever killed Phil and Rory and hurt Mitchell. I’m going to make sure he pays for what he did.”
“Great. I wouldn’t expect anything less. But that doesn’t mean you can’t take other cases, Ree. It doesn’t mean you can’t help other people too.”
“It’s not that easy. I don’t want to—”
“Ree. Baby. Precious brilliant Neanderthal with whom I have for some reason fallen totally in love.”
Hazard studied his boyfriend. “I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment.”
“If you do not immediately open an agency and work your ass off, every day, for the rest of your life, at the thing you are best at in the whole world, you are going to go crazy. Again. And I’m going to divorce you.”
Hazard’s hands went still. After a moment, he turned slowly, reconsidering the space. A private office for himself. Plenty of space to expand: eventually, some sort of assistant, maybe a second investigator. To have a purpose again. His heart was thunder. To be able to help people again.
“If we had the money to float it until I built up enough business—”