Chapter 6

I woke at the crack of dawn the next morning. Well, ten-thirty was the crack of dawn somewhere in the world. It certainly felt like the crack of dawn. No judgment—you try getting up early after finding a body and then having an incredibly confusing conversation with someone who is, objectively, the perfect man.

The perfect man for someone else. For his boyfriend. Whom he currently has.

Not currently. That makes it sound temporary.

You know what I mean.

Oh my God, I thought, staring up at the canopy. Then I got in the shower.

After, I put my phone on speaker and called Hugo. As the phone rang, I got dressed. When the call went to voicemail, I said, “It’s Dash. Answer the phone, please.”

I called him again. I picked out jeans and a tee that showed a rainbow-colored controller and the word GAYMER. When the call went to voicemail again, I said, “I’m going to keep calling until you answer.”

But five calls later, Hugo still hadn’t answered.

I found Indira and Keme in the kitchen. Although most of Hemlock House was a beautifully preserved specimen of another era, the kitchen had been modernized (probably because people didn’t want to continue cooking over an open fire, among other reasons). Indira had her sleeves pushed back, and flour coated her hands and apron as she kneaded bread at the table. Keme, barefoot and in a hoodie and shorts, threw me a peace sign.

“What’s up, my brother?” I asked.

Keme looked at Indira.

“I know,” Indira said. “He does it on purpose.”

“I do it because I’m hip with the youths,” I said.

Keme made a rude gesture, and I swear to God, I think Indira smiled.

Before I could verify, though, Indira said, “There are waffles ready to pop in the toaster.”

I made a sharp turn toward said toaster.

“A reasonable amount of butter and syrup, please,” Indira said. “Keme thinks you’re on the fast track for diabetes.”

“You can’t get diabetes from syrup,” I said—although, to be fair, I had used a considerable amount of the jug over the last couple of months. “It’s from a tree. It’s basically a vegetable.”

Indira sighed. Keme rubbed his eyes.

I called Hugo a few more times as I waited for the waffles to warm, but by the time I sat down at the table with a plate (and, in spite of Keme dramatically widening his eyes in disbelief, yes, it was a reasonable amount of syrup), Hugo still hadn’t answered.

“Where would the police take someone if they were hurt?” I asked between bites.

“Is this about what happened last night?” Indira asked as she transferred the dough to an oiled bowl. “I wondered if you were there. Millie said she heard you found that poor young man.”

“Wait, Millie already knows?” And if Millie knew, that meant everybody would know by the end of the day. I told Keme and Indira about finding Mason and Hugo the night before and repeated my question. “Hugo’s not answering, and even though I’d love for him to jump on the next plane back home, I kind of feel like I should at least check on him.”

Indira and Keme exchanged a look. “Dash, you found him with Mason. I don’t think he’s in the hospital.”

“But he was unconscious, so where would he—” I looked from Indira to Keme, and it was Keme’s pained expression that made me stop. “But that’s ridiculous. Hugo wouldn’t—I mean, he couldn’t have. He didn’t even know Mason.” I tried to find words, but they weren’t coming; I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that Hugo might have been involved in Mason’s death, or that the police could believe he was a suspect.

“I’m sure everything’s all right,” Indira said, and then she dusted her hands as though that settled the matter, but the confidence didn’t carry to her expression. Keme, if anything, looked even more serious.

“I’m going to call Deputy Bobby,” I said.

Keme shook his head vigorously, but I was already placing the call.

He didn’t answer until the fifth ring, and he sounded exhausted. “What’s up?”

“Did you arrest Hugo?”

His silence was the answer.

“I can’t believe you!”

“I didn’t arrest him personally, you know. Sheriff Acosta is taking the lead on this. It was her call. And, in case it matters, I think it was the right one.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Dash—” Indira tried.

“Hugo is one of the kindest, most patient, most caring people on the planet. He’d never hurt anyone.”

“There’s a lot we still don’t know about last night—” Deputy Bobby began.

“He didn’t kill Mason.”

“You need to take a breath.”

“Take a breath? This is unbelievable. What kind of police work are you doing? Because it feels like the ‘whoever’s most convenient’ methodology, just like a couple of months ago!”

“He has injuries consistent with an altercation—”

“Who? Mason? Of course he does! You saw Penny try to claw his eyes out, and then he and Cole brawled like a couple of drunken frat boys.”

“I’m talking about Hugo.” Strain made his voice sound like it was about to snap, and a distant part of me recognized that Deputy Bobby, exhausted after a long night and a fight with West and now my...attitude, to put it politely, was about to lose his temper. He never would have said even this much, I realized, if he hadn’t already been at the brink. “I’m sorry,” he added in a more controlled voice. “I have to go.” But then he added, “Dash, please stay out of this. Acosta told us that we’re supposed to arrest you on obstruction charges if you start poking around.”

I managed a dull goodbye, but he’d already broken the connection.

Keme was looking at me with something approaching disgust. Indira had her head down and was taking way too long to cover the bowl of dough.

When I called Deputy Bobby again, he answered on the second ring. “I know you’re upset, but can we talk about this later—”

“I’m sorry.”

He didn’t disconnect, at least.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice. Or said those things about your job. I’m frustrated, and it does, kind of, feel like a repeat. But it wasn’t right of me to lump you in with everyone else. You were more than fair to me, when I was the one in trouble, and you’re my friend, and I’m sorry for how I acted.”

His silence dragged on.

“Also,” I said, “I realize you asked if we could talk about this later, and I ignored that, so, uh, I’m sorry about that. Too. On top of the other sorry.”

Keme rubbed his eyes some more.

“Deputy Bobby?”

His voice sounded strange. “Uh, yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s okay. You didn’t have to—I get it.”

“Okay.” I drew out the word.

His voice got even weirder. “Apology accepted.”

“What’s happening right now?”

“I can’t talk, Dash.” And then, in that same strange voice, “Thank you for the apology.”

Then he disconnected.

“Does anyone understand guys?” I looked at Keme. “What about you? Shouldn’t you have an expert opinion?”

He did a big production: waving his hands, shaking his head. Indira caught a little smile, and I was surprised, even though the call had been so weird, to find that I was smiling too.

“I guess I should call Lyda.” Until a few months ago, if you’d asked me, I wouldn’t have had any idea who to call if I needed legal representation—particularly, legal representation in a murder trial. But life in Hastings Rock had taught me all sorts of interesting things, and one of those was to call Lyda Hayashi, attorney-at-law, when things got hairy.

As I picked up my phone, Fox stepped into the kitchen. Lyda’s secretary answered, and a few minutes later, I was explaining the situation to Lyda herself. Meanwhile, Indira told Fox about Hugo being arrested for Mason’s murder.

When I disconnected, with a promise from Lyda that she’d look into Hugo’s situation, Fox said, “We’re solving another murder?”

“No,” I said.

Fox’s eyebrows went up.

I shook my head. “Absolutely not.”

“But Bobby told you they had physical evidence suggesting that Hugo and Mason fought—”

“I have full confidence in the justice system.”

“And they already arrested Hugo, which means they must be pretty sure he’s the one who did it.”

“Deputy Bobby literally told me to stay out of this.”

“Deputy Bobby isn’t looking at the big picture. Now that they’ve got a suspect in custody, you know that their efforts are primarily going to be directed to proving he did it—not to chasing down new leads.” To Keme’s questioning look, they added, “I got that from Law Order.”

A part of me knew that Fox was right. Sort of. I mean, yes, Law Order was amazing, but it was still a TV show. Law enforcement officers were people too. They suffered from confirmation bias like everyone else. Once they thought they knew the answer, they’d automatically start looking for additional evidence to confirm what they already believed. And it was a question of resources and priorities. They didn’t have the manpower to chase down every possible lead, especially if they already had a suspect in custody and solid physical evidence.

“Sheriff Acosta is good at her job—” I tried.

“Sheriff Acosta is new at her job,” Fox countered. “She’s overwhelmed. This is a high-profile case. There’s going to be a tremendous amount of pressure on her to solve it quickly and cleanly. The Gauthier-Meadows family will want justice, and they’ll want it fast, and they’ll want it neat.”

“Okay, but—”

“So, you need to step in.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re so good at this,” Fox said. “You’re a natural. I mean, I’m good at it, too, but I can’t because I have to spend the weekend sitting on my couch crying and watching Below Deck.”

“Uh.”

“Fox,” Indira said, “tone it down a bit. Dash, Fox is right: you’re good at this, and I’m not sure there’s anyone else.”

“But.” I stopped there. I could think of all sorts of other people. Private investigators, for example. Lyda would probably know one. But how long would it take before they could start? And how much would they cost? I was tapped out until another wedding party decided to book Hemlock House (or until I sold the Great American Novel, and neither seemed likely in the immediate future). And Hugo, although he’d learned to dress the part, didn’t come from money; he’d gotten a good advance on his first novel, but not enough to finance a legal defense, including a private investigator.

“Unless, of course,” Fox said, examining their nails, “you hate Hugo, and you want to see him suffer in the most publicly humiliating way possible—”

“Okay!” I snapped. “You made your point.”

Fox grinned. “We’re going to solve a murder.”

“We’re going to find something to exonerate Hugo, and then we’re going to leave the rest of it to the sheriff’s office.”

Keme had his arms folded across his chest, and he was staring at me, his expression dark.

“I know,” I said to him. “I know it’s risky. I know it’s stupid.”

He nodded slowly to let me know how stupid it was.

“But I don’t know what else to do.”

His expression hardened into a scowl. His eyes were fixed on mine, and his chest rose with quick, sharp breaths. Indira touched his shoulder, but he jerked away from her. Even that wasn’t enough to break his gaze, though; I was the one who looked away first.

“Now,” Fox said, “we should start with the most obvious suspect—”

My phone buzzed with an unknown number. I looked at the others. Fox shrugged. Keme shook his head. Indira said, “Maybe it’s Hugo.”

I had a mental image of Hugo standing at a payphone in a cellblock, and even though my brain informed me that the Ridge County jail probably didn’t have cellblocks, it was still enough to make me accept the call.

But instead of Hugo’s voice, it was Cole.

“Uh, hi, Cole,” I managed to say. And then, because it was the only thing I could think of, “I’m so sorry about Mason.”

Keme gestured frantically to the phone. Indira whispered, “Put it on speaker.”

I did, and Cole’s voice floated out into the room, sounding flat, almost affectless as he said, “Thanks.”

“How are you doing?”

“Not great.” He tore off a little laugh. Fox’s eyebrows went up. “Really not great, actually. How are you?” Before I had to answer, he said, “I wanted to apologize about last night.”

“What?”

“About all of it. About how I acted. That stupid fight.” His voice hitched. “About showing up high. And then going to the bathroom to get high. God, I’m high right now. What is wrong with me?”

Keme rolled his eyes.

Cole continued, “I, uh, wanted to say that you’re a great guy, and I should have listened when you told me, you know, what you wanted me to do. Or not do. And I’m sorry. You deserve better than that.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I’m so sorry for what you’re going through.” And then, because it was automatic, I heard myself say, “If you need anything—”

“Yes, God, please.” Another of those jagged laughs came across the line. “I have to get out of this house. I’m going crazy.”

My silence must have carried my shock.

“Not, like, a date,” Cole mumbled. “I need to talk to someone, and you were so sweet, and I know you’re going to think I’m just saying this, but I feel like we connected.” He stopped, and I thought I could hear him swallow through tears as he fought for a self-mocking tone. “And you know what is so freaking pathetic? I don’t have anybody else. Who am I going to call? Some college kid who sells me E?”

I still had no idea what to say.

“Never mind,” Cole said. “This was stupid. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

Fox grabbed my elbow. They gave me a shake and pointed at the phone, and I said, “What?”

“Huh?” Cole said.

“Uh, a second.” I put the phone on mute and said again to Fox, “What?”

“Tell him yes,” Fox said.

“Are you out of your mind? He’s a thirty-year-old man-child. I mean, yes, he’s sweet, and yes, I feel bad for him, and yes, he does have that whole I’m-so-handsome-I-could-be-a-watch-model thing going for him—”

“What is wrong with you?”

“I’m anxious, I’m a perfectionist, I’ve got crippling self-doubt, I’m bad at relationships—”

Keme was giving Indira a significant look and tapping his wrist, probably because I’d let that watch-model comment slip.

Indira said, “Don’t tease him.”

“I know all that,” Fox said, waving away my words. “I’m talking about this, right now. Hugo is in prison—”

“He’s in jail, technically.”

Very slowly, Fox said again, “What is wrong with you?”

I decided not to answer that.

“Cole got into a huge fight with Mason last night,” Fox said. “Remember? And not long after, Mason was dead.”

“Yeah, but—” I stopped and gestured at the phone. “Listen to him. He’s a wreck.”

“Or he’s an excellent actor. Either way, this is an ideal opportunity.”

“For what? To go on a date with a bereaved potential murderer?”

Keme blew out a long breath.

“I know, dear,” Indira said. “They’re both dramatic.” To me, she said, “Dashiell, say yes. His grief could be real, and he could still be the killer; emotions run high in that family, and it wouldn’t be the first time someone did something terrible and then regretted it.”

“I can’t believe you’re encouraging this.”

“What about you?” I asked Keme.

He leaned across the table to smack me—not so lightly—upside the head.

“How is that supposed to be helpful?”

Keme cocked a grin, and Fox said, “I think that was more for his own benefit.”

“I have crazy people for friends,” I said as I reached for my phone. “This is why I end up in these shenanigans.”

“Some people would consider themselves fortunate—” Fox began, but they cut off when I glared at them.

After unmuting the phone, I said, “Cole?”

“Hey, I’m going to get out of here for a little while. Go for a run. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“You didn’t bother me. I know what it’s like to be lonely and not have anyone to talk to. I’m a little busy right now, but could we get together this evening?”

The relief was transparent in his voice. “Yes, God, thank you.”

After agreeing to figure out a location over text, we disconnected.

“Now if you could only apply these sleuthing skills,” Fox said, “to find yourself a man who isn’t a potential killer.”

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“Because I didn’t know what to do with all the centerpieces I made for the wedding. I thought maybe you still wanted them.”

“Why would I—” I got to my feet so quickly the chair scraped across the floor. “Actually, yes, that’s perfect. Come with me.”

“Where are you going?” Indira asked.

“To figure out who might have wanted to kill Mason.”