Chapter 11

We drove to the Otter Slide in silence. In the back seat, Keme looked miserable. Hugo must have caught the mood too because he didn’t say anything. He didn’t even remind me to signal as we turned into the bar’s gravel lot. I parked and killed the engine.

“It’s fine,” I said to Keme. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

It was hard to tell in the dark, but Keme’s breathing suggested defensiveness defaulting into anger.

“It’s okay,” I said again, trying to work some conviction into my voice. I squeezed his hand. “We wouldn’t have those pictures if it weren’t for you. You were brave tonight, and it was smart to send them to Deputy Bobby.” Then, trying for a lighter tone, I added, “Although if you risk your neck like that again without talking to me first, I’m going to lose my mind.”

He tried for a glare that didn’t quite land, but some of the tension seemed to drain out of his body.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go inside and get something to drink.”

He was a teenager. Even in the midst of self-flagellation and what probably felt like world-ending humiliation, he was still a teenager. He paused mid-glare to crook a little look at me from over the collar of his shirt.

“A Coke, dingus. Nice try, though.”

That earned me a smile—a small one.

Keme headed into the bar ahead of us, and as Hugo and I followed, Hugo asked, “What’s he so upset about?”

“He’s embarrassed,” I said. “He’s seventeen, but he thinks he’s twenty-seven, and honestly, most of the time, he’s so mature that it’s hard to remember he’s still a kid. And he—he doesn’t do well when people are upset with him. And he doesn’t do well when people he cares about are, I don’t know, in trouble.”

Hugo’s silence was another question; we’d been together long enough for me to hear it.

“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “Indira says he has a rough home life, which has got to be true; I think he sleeps at her place half the time, and I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he was roughing it the other nights.”

“God,” Hugo said, “he’s such a sweet kid, though.”

I nodded.

“And you’re good with him,” Hugo added.

“I’m not good with him,” I said. “He’s my friend. Although he’d probably roll his eyes if he heard me say that.”

For some reason, that made Hugo smile. The look on his face was strange—like he’d never seen me before, or like he was seeing something new. I didn’t know what to say to that look, so I picked up the pace and headed into the bar.

The Otter Slide looked about the same as it had the other night. Someone (hopefully not Seely) had cleaned up the mess from Cole and Mason’s scuffle, and the tables and chairs were back in order. The green-and-gold pendant lights left the right amount of shadows. I did a quick scout to see if I could find any new additions and spotted a tiny golden doodle plushie on a table near the door; the poor little guy looked like he was trying to pick up a saltshaker as big as he was. Journey was playing—“Don’t Stop Believin’”—competing with the bells and chimes of the pinball machine in the back. Seely was behind the bar as usual, making conversation, and I took a deep breath and fell in love with her all over again: tonight was cheese curd night. Not just cheese curd night. Fried cheese curds. Fried pepper jack cheese curds. With marinara sauce.

Sure, maybe the crowd looked a little…thin. I did some mental math. Today was Friday, I thought. Normally on Fridays, the Otter Slide was packed. I recognized most of the faces as locals. Word had undoubtedly spread about Mason’s death in the parking lot, but that had to be a coincidence—didn’t it? I mean, it was one time. And it was an accident, er, maybe. More worrisome was that even though the Otter Slide was definitely more of a local place, a few tourists inevitably wandered in.

So, where were they tonight?

“Isn’t that him?” Hugo asked.

It was him, although I’d apparently missed Deputy Bobby on my first sweep of the place. He sat in a booth near the back, dressed in a hoodie and joggers instead of his usual going-out attire (always something that West had picked out for him, always handsome, always looking a little too dapper for what I thought Deputy Bobby might pick on his own). Maybe it was a trick of the light, but his face was mostly lost in shadow. Keme sat opposite him, saying something (because of course he talked to Deputy Bobby and not me), but as Hugo and I approached, Keme slid out of the booth and headed for the bar.

“I said a Coke,” I called after him.

He didn’t look back, but I could tell he heard me and that he was grateful for the reminder. Teenagers love it when you tell them what to do.

Hugo steered me into the booth, and he slid in next to me. Deputy Bobby looked at us from his patch of shadow. He had both hands wrapped around a mostly empty pint (a seasonal Rock Top, of course). Voices mixed and mingled around us, vying with the music. The sounds of the pinball machine seemed incredibly loud.

“I wasn’t trying to—” I began.

Deputy Bobby picked up his beer and killed it. For some reason, that stopped me. When he set the glass down, it thunked against the table, and he leaned forward. His eyes were bloodshot and starting to go glassy. His face was flushed. I realized I hadn’t seen Deputy Bobby’s face this red before, not ever; the color rode under his smooth, golden-olive complexion.

“Are you drunk?” Hugo asked.

Deputy Bobby ignored him. That glassy stare stayed on me. In a voice that was a little too loud, he asked, “What were you thinking?”

“Things kind of got out of hand—”

“No.” He stopped. The pause had a kind of combativeness to it, and a charged, drunken significance that probably felt meaningful to Deputy Bobby. He was still talking too loudly. “I asked you what you were thinking. I want an explanation right now.”

“I was thinking—” I began.

“You weren’t. You weren’t thinking. That’s the problem.”

“Hey, hold on.”

“You were doing exactly what the sheriff told you not to do.”

“I’m trying to help my friend,” I said.

“You’re interfering with an investigation.” I opened my mouth, but he spoke over me. “You could get arrested.”

“I—”

“Did you think about that? Did you think about the fact that you could get arrested?” I tried again, but he said, “You could have been killed!”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Everyone’s fine.”

“I have to send those pictures to the sheriff. That’s my job.” He stared a challenge and then, with drunken belligerence, “My job.”

“You should do whatever you need to do. I didn’t know Keme was going to send them to you. I would have stopped him if I had, and I’m sorry; I’d never want to put you in that kind of situation.”

Deputy Bobby made an angry noise.

“Nice friend,” Hugo whispered.

“I’ve never seen him like this,” I said back. And I hadn’t. It was kind of scary, as a matter of fact.

“I won’t tell her they’re from you,” Deputy Bobby said in what he probably thought was a conciliatory tone.

“She’s probably going to figure it out anyway,” I said. “But thank you.”

“I won’t tell her.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“But you have to be more careful. You can’t take risks. You could have gotten hurt!”

“Here we go again,” Hugo muttered.

Deputy Bobby’s voice got even louder. “And going on a date with that guy?” Deputy Bobby made another of those drunken pauses. “Jeez, Dash. Come on.”

People at the other tables were starting to turn. My face felt hot. “All right,” I said. “I’m sorry I…I upset you, I guess. I think we should go.” I looked around, trying to spot Keme, but I wasn’t seeing anything as I nudged Hugo out of the booth.

“You did upset me,” Deputy Bobby said, and it had the petulant hurt of a child. And then his voice changed, and he grabbed my arm. “No, no, no. Don’t go. I’m sorry. Don’t go!”

Lots of people were looking now. Seely was watching us, her expression flat as she shook a drink.

“Take your hand off him,” Hugo said.

“It’s okay,” I told Hugo. I touched Deputy Bobby’s hand; his skin felt hot and feverish, but maybe that was my imagination. I felt hot and feverish, but maybe that was the bar, and the trapped heat of bodies, and all those eyes.

“We’re okay,” Deputy Bobby announced. “It’s all okay. We’re friends. We’re best friends!”

A woman tittered. Seely was still looking over at us, so I offered a discreet thumbs-up, and she nodded and went back to mixing drinks. Journey changed to Kansas, although I couldn’t think of the name of the song, and conversations began to pick up again in fits and starts.

“Let’s get out of here,” Hugo said.

“Something’s wrong.”

“Yeah, he’s drunk.”

“Not drunk,” Deputy Bobby informed us, but it was undermined by the fact that he was slumped against the back of the booth.

“I’m not leaving him like this,” I said.

“Dash.”

“Can you get us some water? And something to eat? We all need to take a minute to unwind.”

Hugo’s eyebrows drew together. He set his jaw.

“He’s my friend,” I said.

“We’re friends!” Deputy Bobby announced again. That same woman laughed again.

“You’re talking too loud,” I told him. To Hugo, I said, “If it were me, he’d make sure I got home okay.”

He had, in fact. My first time in the Otter Slide, I’d had, well, too much to drink. And Deputy Bobby hadn’t exactly been a friend yet—he’d been more of a “deputy trying to convict me of a murder” kind of acquaintance. But he’d made sure I got some food in me, and he’d driven me home.

For a moment, I was sure it was going to be a fight—and with Hugo, fights had been rare. But then his mouth softened, and he offered a small smile. He ruffled my hair and kissed the side of my head before trotting off toward the bar.

“Hey,” I called after him, straightening my glasses.

I didn’t realize I was smiling until I glanced over at Deputy Bobby. He was still propped up against the back of the booth, but his bloodshot eyes were studying me.

“You scared me,” Deputy Bobby said in a low voice.

“You’re doing a little bit of scaring yourself,” I said. “How much have you had to drink?”

“What if you’d gotten hurt? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. A little embarrassed that my first real date turned out to be a potential murderer, but that’s dating in the twenty-first century.”

Deputy Bobby shifted in his seat, relaxing, his body loosening. He tilted his head back, as though I’d said something interesting. His eyes were the most remarkable color: a gold so deep they were almost bronze, rich and dark and gleaming. Objectively. Objectively remarkable.

“I changed my mind,” I said.

Deputy Bobby’s mouth quirked into a reluctant grin.

“I’m not fine. I feel awful, actually. Cole seemed like such a good guy.” And he had; maybe not husband material, or even boyfriend material, but sweet and decent. I didn’t like thinking of him as a murderer, especially not as someone who might kill his grandmother because—why? Because she might change the trust? Because Penny was going to have a baby, possibly his? Deputy Bobby was still looking at me, and I forced myself to say, “I mean, he was a disaster, sure. But he was sweet. And it seemed like he was lost, you know?”

That little grin came again.

“Something to share with the class?” I asked.

“You’re weak for people who are disasters.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“It’s sweet. Everything about you is sweet.”

“I don’t know how sweet it is. It’s mostly because I’m a walking fallout zone myself.”

Deputy Bobby shook his head. It felt like a long time passed before he whispered, “I think you’re perfect.”

It was definitely hot in here. Like, sweat soaking my shirt, my scalp stinging, face-meltingly hot in the Otter Slide. I thought about slipping off my jacket. And then I thought about sitting here with Deputy Bobby in nothing but a tee, and it was like someone opened the door on a blast furnace.

Somehow, I managed to say, “Well, I’m not. Ask Hugo. I’m sure he’s prepared a list.”

“What happened?” Deputy Bobby asked. “What happened? What went wrong? What happened?” And then his flush deepened, and he touched his neck and swallowed. He shook himself like he was trying to wake up. “God, I did not mean to say that. I think maybe—I think maybe—” He tried to slide toward the booth. “I should—”

My laugh surprised me, and I stuck out my leg and set my foot on the bench to keep him from leaving. “How about you sit for a few minutes? Hugo’s going to bring us some water and something to eat. Then we’ll see about getting you home.”

“No, I have to—I shouldn’t have—” He was pawing at my sneaker like it was a complicated lock. For some reason, he’d gotten fixated on the laces.

“I can talk about Hugo,” I said. “I don’t mind. Hey, leave my shoe alone, goofball.”

Deputy Bobby gave up on the super lock. He slid down in his seat a few inches to recline against the back of the booth, and then he watched me, waiting with a kind of childlike expectation.

“Nothing happened happened,” I said. I glanced over at the bar. Hugo and Keme were chatting (of course), and Hugo had even managed to rope Seely into short exchanges every time she passed him. He looked so confident and relaxed. His hair was still wonderfully swooshy, even at the end of a crazy day. Other people, having been charged with murder and spent the night in jail, would have been angry—justifiably so. They would have been tired. They might have been brusque and unkind. They could have been bitter. And Hugo, instead, was Hugo. “We weren’t in love. I wasn’t in love, I guess. I shouldn’t speak for Hugo.”

“He cares about you.”

I nodded, still looking at Hugo. Something he said made Keme laugh—big, belly laughs that I rarely saw from the teen.

When Deputy Bobby spoke again, his voice was strained, as though he were struggling with the words. “He seems…he seems like a good guy.”

“He is.” Then I added, “Ask Indira, Millie, Fox, or—exhibit D—Keme. They’re all in love with him.”

“But you’re not.”

“I care about him. I love him—I do—as a friend. But I’m not in love with him. And I want that. I am so bad at relationships, so bad at being in them, so bad at knowing what’s going on. And that’s something I need to work on; I know that. But I also know that I want to feel more than what I feel for Hugo.” I tried to smile, but it felt mangled, twisted around until it was something else. “We get one life, Deputy Bobby. And I want to be in love.”

Kansas changed to something poppy, a droning piece that made me glad I didn’t have any fillings.

“What if there isn’t more?” Deputy Bobby asked. “What if that’s all there is: you care about someone, and they’re a good person, and you want what’s best for them? What if the rest of it is something people made up for books and movies and Valentine’s cards?”

I glanced over at Deputy Bobby, and I almost asked what was going on, why he was asking these questions. But the look on his face stopped me. The pain in his face was raw. As was the grief—a tremendous sorrow that made me ache to see it. And I wanted to ask, Where’s West? And I wanted to ask, What happened?

But I didn’t. I took a breath, and I said, “I don’t know. At least I tried, I guess. I think I owe that to myself, to try. Maybe what I’m looking for doesn’t exist. But maybe it does. I hope it does. I hope there’s more.”

Deputy Bobby looked at me. I didn’t know what he was seeing. And I didn’t know how to read what I saw in the polished bronze of his eyes. It felt like everything inside me had come apart, moved, begun to flutter with restless energy. He’s drunk, I thought. And he kept looking at me, and I kept falling into those eyes, and everything inside me was trembling until I thought I was going to pass out. He’s drunk, I tried again. He’s drunk. Oh God, please let him be drunk.

The clink of a glass on the table made me start.

“Water for Bobby,” Hugo said as he set down another glass. “And they have a summer highball I thought you’d like: a horse’s neck. Isn’t that lemon peel so cute? Burger and fries for the representative of law and order, and Dash, I swear to God you had better share these cheese curds or you’re going to make yourself sick.”

I tried a smile. It felt as mangled as the last one.

Hugo’s eyebrows went up as he slid into the booth. “Okay. What’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“I don’t understand,” Deputy Bobby said. “You seem so good together.”

“Us?” Hugo asked.

“He’s had too much to drink,” I said.

“We were good together,” Hugo said. “I think we still could be.”

“God,” Deputy Bobby said. “That is so cute.”

“But relationships are hard work,” Hugo said, directing a look at me. “Even when you’re perfect for each other. That’s what you’ve got to remember.”

“That is so freaking cute. That is adorable.”

“Why don’t you eat your burger—” I tried.

But Hugo’s comment had opened the floodgates. “Was there something you wish you’d done?” Deputy Bobby asked. “Something you could have done different?”

Hugo rubbed his eyes. Then he took a drink of his cocktail—I didn’t know what it was, but it looked sweet and fruity. One drink turned into a long drink. When he set down the glass, he said, “We’re having that conversation?”

“No,” I said.

“You seem like a great guy,” Deputy Bobby said over me. “And Dash is—” Whatever I was, he didn’t finish the sentence. “I mean, what went wrong?”

“Uh.” Hugo looked at me. “I don’t think that would be appropriate—”

“Nothing went wrong,” I said.

Hugo grimaced.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“It didn’t look like nothing.”

Deputy Bobby leaned forward and barely caught himself on the table. He pointed at Hugo. “You see? Something happened.”

“What went wrong, Hugo? Go on. Let’s hear it.”

“Why are you acting like this?” he asked.

“I don’t know what that means. How am I acting?”

“You’re acting like you’re mad at me, and we were all getting along fine a few minutes ago. I’ve been nothing but nice ever since I came here. If you want to have this conversation, fine. I’d love to have this conversation with you. In private, not in front of your friend.”

“Yeah, we’ve all been getting along fine. Everybody is getting along perfectly.”

“What does that mean?”

“Tell me what went wrong.”

Hugo picked up his drink and swirled it, staring into the miniature whirlpool. When he looked up, his face was drawn, his eyes wide. He set the glass down hard enough to slop some of the drink over the side. “All right. You have trust issues.”

I could feel Deputy Bobby looking at me. The pinball machine was ringing and dinging, and ice clattered in glasses, and the dull, droning beat of the music had crawled behind my eyes. “You already used that one. I won’t make myself vulnerable. I have trouble with intimacy.”

“Well, it was a problem. I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t.”

“You want to talk about lack of trust? How about you showing up to check on me?”

The shock on his face melted into an ugly flush. “Excuse me?”

“You did it all the time. You did it coming here, showing up at my house all the way across the country without any warning. You always had an excuse like I wasn’t answering my phone, or I forgot my lunch—”

“Because you did forget your lunch! You forgot it all the time! And I came here because I love you!” Hugo struggled like he was trying to hold back the next words, but they ripped their way free. “You want to talk about what went wrong? How about this, right here?”

Music buzzed in the silence.

“Hey,” Deputy Bobby said. “Hey, stop. Hey, I’m drunk. I shouldn’t have said anything. Hey Dash, I think I’m drunk.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked Hugo.

“This is what you do about everything,” he said. “You think about it and you worry about it and you analyze it to death until everything is a red flag or a warning sign or rock-solid proof that I’m a terrible guy. Did you even consider the possibility that I was just bringing you lunch? That I loved you and wanted to take care of you and do good things for you?”

People were looking again, and I had that old, familiar feeling: like I was standing under a spotlight, like I could feel the heat of the halogen bulb, like I was about to catch on fire. Hugo felt farther away. Everything felt farther away. The other bar sounds shrank down to a background buzz.

“I...I don’t know.” My voice sounded small inside my own head. “Maybe we should have talked—”

“We did try to talk. I tried to talk. And you know what you did every time, Dash? You ran away, like you ran away when you came here.”

My eyes stung. I found the little paper napkin that had come with my drink and tried to wipe them clear.

“There you go,” Hugo said, his voice so thick I barely understood the words. “Proof I’m such a bad guy.”

He crossed the bar and disappeared out the front door, and it jittered shut behind him.

“Oh God,” Deputy Bobby said. It was almost a moan. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—I’m so sorry.”

“Stay here,” I said. I wasn’t sure if he heard me. I couldn’t hear myself. I managed to get free of the booth and stumble over to the bar. People were still staring: a guy in an Oregon State hat, his mouth hanging open; a woman with an Afro peeking over her menu; a cluster of college-age kids whispering furiously to each other as they tracked me. The weight of all that attention settled on my chest and made it hard to breathe.

When I found Keme nursing a Coke at the end of the bar, he gave me a miserable look.

“Can you—Hugo left.” I fished my keys out. “He doesn’t know—if you could—”

Keme took the keys and nodded. For a moment, I thought he might say something. Then he touched my shoulder and slipped around me to jog out of the bar.

“Can I settle up?” I asked Seely the next time she passed me.

She glanced over my shoulder, and I followed her gaze. Deputy Bobby was trying to extract himself from the booth, and he looked like he was going to face-plant in the process.

“Next time you’re in,” Seely said.

“Thanks.”

“Want me to call him a ride?”

“I’ll get him home.”

“Good man,” Seely said before drifting back down the bar to a waiting patron.

I wasn’t feeling particularly good when I got back to the booth. Deputy Bobby had somehow gotten his laces caught on the table’s bolted-down base. He was trying to yank himself free, grunting and saying un-Deputy Bobby-like words under his breath.

“Cool it, Maniac Magee,” I said. I crawled under the table, slapped his leg a few times to make him hold still, and untangled the laces. By the time I got clear of the table, Deputy Bobby was leaning against the back of the booth—technically still standing, but Tower-of-Pisa style. His food—and his water—looked untouched. I caught his arm, and his eyes fluttered. “Okay, here we go.”

A Native American woman in a Disneyland sweatshirt watched us leave. And a white guy who was trying to make an extra-long straw by inserting one straw inside another. And a woman who was so tan she looked like she’d been left to dry in the sun, her hair like old, bleached straw. Hastings Rock was a small town. How long, I wanted to know with a wild surge of amusement, before Millie heard about this?

Keme had taken the Jeep, and presumably he’d taken Hugo as well. Deputy Bobby’s SUV was parked at the end of the lot. I got the keys out of his pocket and helped him into the back seat. He lay down immediately, his breathing softening. I realized I didn’t know where he lived, but a quick rifle of the glove box turned up the registration and insurance paperwork with a Hastings Rock address. It was as good a place to start as any.

We drove out of the lot. The Honda Pilot was a lot quieter than the Jeep. Gravel crunched under our tires, and then even that sound faded as we eased onto the asphalt. The marine layer had moved in, and fog garlanded the trees. Branches glittered with moisture in the light from the old sodium streetlamps. For the first few blocks, a pair of blue-white headlights followed us. Then Deputy Bobby moaned, so I cracked the windows, and fresh air rushed through the SUV. It smelled like balsam and wet pavement. From somewhere came a whiff of laundry detergent—something generic, but clean and pleasant. And beer, of course. And Deputy Bobby’s sweat. When I checked the rearview mirror again, the headlights were gone.

Deputy Bobby moaned again, and I reached back to pat his shoulder. “Please don’t throw up. This is technically your car, but I have the feeling I’d be the one cleaning it up.”

He didn’t answer, but a moment later, his hand closed around mine. It wasn’t a tight grip. It wasn’t firm. His fingers were loose and a little greasy. I didn’t think he knew what he was doing. It was easier, at least, to tell myself that. But I was painfully aware, too, of how well his hand fit mine. It was the right size. And even that slack grasp suggested the possibility of strength, although certainly not tonight. For the few months I’d been in Hastings Rock, Deputy Bobby had always been even-keeled, calm, basically unflappable. Well, something had certainly flapped him tonight. I thought about taking my hand back. It would have been the right thing to do, but I didn’t.

The address on the car registration was a two-story walk-up with cedar shake siding. A fourplex, I thought. Two units up. Two units down. Older construction, in need of a good power washing and, to judge by the sagging treads, some safety repairs to the stairs. But old in a comfortable way. It wasn’t hard to picture Deputy Bobby living here. It wasn’t hard to picture Deputy Bobby living here with West.

A small lot behind the building had a handful of assigned spots. I parked and set to work getting Deputy Bobby out of the back seat. He didn’t actively resist, but he was kind of a big lump, and it took a lot of stern talking and shaking his leg (literally) before he groaned and grumbled and started scooting. He lost his balance as soon as he tried to stand, and I caught him under the arms. He squirmed around until we were face to face. His eyes looked glassier under the lone security light than they had in the bar. His breath was soft and yeasty and honestly, not unpleasant against my cheek. He looked lost inside those burnished bronze eyes. His fingers found my nape and worked their way into my hair. Strong fingers, like I’d guessed. Almost painfully strong, with how tightly he gripped me.

“How about we get inside?” I asked, trying to hoist him up straighter. “And we’ll get you to bed?”

Deputy Bobby shook his head. The security light painted a thin stripe across his heart-shaped face. His hair had fallen out of its usual perfect part, and it was hard to tell in the night, but it looked like he was flushed again. He worked his fingers against my nape again. His hand fit there too, my brain catalogued. His hand fit like it belonged there.

“Upstairs,” I whispered.

He shook his head again. And then, in a drunken breath, “Can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

Another shake of his head.

“Did West say something to you?”

“West’s gone.”

“He’s gone? Where’d he go?”

“I like it here,” Deputy Bobby said in that same voice that was barely a breath. He threaded his fingers through my hair. “I like being here. I don’t want to leave.”

“You don’t have to leave,” I said. But I remembered the tail of the argument I’d heard between them, and West’s complaint. “Let’s go upstairs, and you’ll feel better.”

“I don’t want to leave.” Deputy Bobby’s head wobbled. “He’s so mad at me.”

I shushed him. He was starting to slip through my arms again, so I hoisted him up—no small feat, even though I had a few inches (and a few pounds) on him. The movement brought us closer together. His chest brushed mine. His head rocked forward until our foreheads met—a little bump, and then he stayed there. I was aware of him: the hard definition under the hoodie and joggers, the heat of him, the way his body aligned with mine. His lips were parted. He whispered, “Dash.”

I thought—

I almost thought.

I remembered how he’d said in the bar, I think you’re perfect.

If I moved a fraction of an inch to meet him. But I thought maybe I didn’t even need to move. If I breathed. If I did anything.

Then I thought about West, and the fact that Deputy Bobby was drunk.

And as Hugo had pointed out, I had a tendency to overthink.

“Come on, big boy,” I said, and I got him on his feet. “Let’s get you home.”

I’m not going to say it was easy, getting him up those narrow, rickety stairs. Especially when he kept grabbing on to me. Especially when I kept thinking about how it had felt to be touched by someone, even if it was only for a moment. Especially when Deputy Bobby put his foot between two treads and almost knocked both of us tail-over-teakettle.

But we made it to the top, and one of Deputy Bobby’s keys unlocked the door. I waited for—well, I wasn’t sure. I had the excessively dramatic vision of West waiting in the dark, in an armchair, with a long, Audrey Hepburn-ish cigarette. A part of me knew that wasn’t likely. But it was hard to shake.

Instead, nothing.

I turned on the lights. The apartment was cute, and you could tell at a glance that it was West’s space: the coffee table was reclaimed wood, the sofa was the color of raw flax, the scalloped lampshade made me think of seashells, and the ficus sat in an enormous ceramic planter that had probably cost a fortune. The kitchen must have been original, but West had found a way to make it look charmingly retro, with a bowl of lemons and a vintage stand mixer and an enameled pot on the stove (which I instinctively knew he never used to actually cook anything). Doggie bowls (food and water) had the name Kylie printed on them. But the water bowl was empty and dry, and no animal rushed to greet us.

Because Deputy Bobby was getting heavy, I unloaded him onto the sofa. Then, calling, “West?” I moved deeper into the apartment. It was a one-bedroom. The bathroom looked like it was due for a cleaning—not filthy, but lived in and regularly used. The bedroom had the same level of disorder that suggested a balance of neatness and the requirements of daily living. There were no plates that had been broken when they’d been thrown against the wall. There were no drawers hanging open, no shattered mirrors. It looked like a normal place where normal people lived. On the dresser, a photo showed Deputy Bobby and West when they’d been younger. Deputy Bobby looked like a baby, as a matter of fact, and he was grinning that big, goofy grin into the camera, with West behind him, an arm hugging Deputy Bobby around the neck. When I realized I’d picked it up, I set it down and wiped my hands on my jeans. I felt vaguely guilty. Like I’d stolen something. Or like I’d been peeping.

I picked out Deputy Bobby’s pillow because one nightstand was covered in junk (hand creams, a glass of water, a box of tissues on its side, a magazine folded open—it looked like it was for interior decorating), and the other had nothing but a lamp. When I got back to the living room, he lay prone on the sofa, his face buried in the crevice at the back, and he was snoring softly. Fox would have said something about his tush, which was, uh, elevated.

I poked and prodded until he let me slide the pillow under his head. Then I sat and worked his sneakers off his feet. For someone who was allegedly gay, he had the straightest socks I’d ever seen—cheap, thin white ones, the kind you’d call athletic socks or gym socks. They were practically gray from being washed so many times, and one had a hole in the toe. I found a blanket in the hall closet and tucked him in. And then I turned off the light.

His voice came out of the darkness, muzzy with sleep and drink. “Dash?”

“I’m right here,” I said. “Go back to sleep.”

I could hear him moving around in the dark: sofa springs compressing and relaxing, the blanket rustling, lots of wriggling around as though he were trying to get comfortable. It was eye roll inducing, and I wished I could have shared it with Keme. Finally, he stopped, and I waited until his breathing evened out before I reached for the door.

But his voice came up again out of that dark place, so soft I had to strain to hear him. “Do you ever think you might be making a mistake?”