Chapter Twenty-Four

Twenty-Four

When I showed up at the office, Blake was involved in an animated discussion with an enormous bald guy. I'd seen the bald guy before—with Desmond, in fact—but even if I hadn't, I'd have clocked him as Burke muscle. When it came to henchmen, Desmond had a type: enormous, scary-looking, silent, and very often hairless. (I'd always imagined that last requirement had to do with not leaving any DNA.)

This dude ticked off all the boxes—save for the silent part. "Three hundred," he was saying now. "I used to bench-press three-fifty, but then my shoulder started bugging me."

"Respect, man," Blake said. "My limit is two twenty-five."

"Ever do chin-ups?" the bald man said.

"Noooo. What a great idea, bro. So old school. You put in a bar?"

The bald guy launched into a lengthy response about chin-up bar installation. They were both drinking cans of Gonzo. Neither one of them seemed to notice I was in the room. I took off my coat. I hung it on the hook by the door and cleared my throat loudly, interrupting Blake's enthusiastic and detailed question about leg lifts.

"Oh, hi, Sunny," Blake said. "I didn't see you come in. Where's Rosie?"

"Sorry, I had to leave her home again," I said. "She had a late night, and she was sleepy."

"We should get a dog bed for the office. I could keep it right out here with me."

"Not a bad idea. I'll think about it." I looked at the visitor. "Who is this?"

Blake finished the rest of his can and stood up. "This is Charlie. He's an associate of Mr. Burke's."

"Yes, I was expecting you," I said.

Charlie rose to his feet, all business now. "Mr. Burke says you got something for me." He gulped from his Gonzo can and belched softly.

I'd wrapped Moon's thug's Ruger in a scarf I no longer wore and put the ammo in an empty box I'd found at home. I removed both from my purse and handed them to him. It felt good to get rid of the gun—like I'd accomplished something.

"Thank you," Charlie said.

"Great meeting you, man," Blake said.

Charlie put the gun and the ammo into a gym bag that I hadn't noticed he'd brought with him until now. He took another swallow of Gonzo. Then he looked at Blake. "Same, bro, same," he said. "And try the chin-ups. You won't be sorry."

"I will for sure."

He set his can down on Blake's desk. "You guys recycle?"

"Just leave it," Blake said. "I'll take care of it."

"I didn't finish the whole thing."

"No worries. I'll spill it out."

After Charlie left, Blake sat back down. "Awesome human being," he said.

"He seemed fine," I said.

Blake brought Charlie's Gonzo can to his lips and drained the rest of it.

I stared at him.

"What?"

"Well, first, there are a lot of winter bugs going around, so it's probably not a great idea to polish off cans left by strangers."

Blake's cheeks flushed. He let out a nervous laugh. "I thought that was mine," he said. "Guess I wasn't thinking."

"Second, how many of those have you had?"

"Just two. Maybe two and a half."

"It's ten in the morning," I said. "Not trying to act like your mom, but I'd suggest you at least move on to coffee."

Blake sighed. "You're right," he said. "I'm just going to throw these into recycling."

I followed him into our breakroom, which was really just a converted closet. Blake had been the one to suggest we create one, and I'd accommodated him by installing overhead lights, a sink, a small refrigerator, and cupboards. Then I'd thrown in a couple folding chairs and the coffee maker and called it a day. There could have been more forethought put into the design. The walls were plain white, the floors white linoleum, and, of course, considering the room's previous life as a walk-in closet, there were no windows. I couldn't imagine anyone taking an actual break in here, but functionally speaking, it worked. Blake could make coffee for clients, and he could also offer them juice, bottled water, even snacks. Plus, the fridge enabled us to bring lunch to work if we wanted to, decreasing our need for expensive takeout. It had been a good idea, and it had been Blake's idea. And it made me think about how important it was to take young people like him seriously. Which, of course, brought my thoughts back to Elspeth—the calls, texts, and audio messages she'd been forced to contend with. The guy she'd just started to like, shot dead. Her every waking moment filled with anxiety, terror. It was no way to live for anyone—but Elspeth was barely out of her teens. That was the problem with people like Dylan. They never picked on anyone their own size.

Blake threw the Gonzo cans into the recycling bin. I glanced inside. There were five other empty cans in there. "Yeah, you really might want to try and ease up on this stuff."

"It's got vitamins, though. Niacin. B 12 ."

I gave him a look.

"Yeah, well, anyways, what's going on with Dylan? Do they really think he killed that drug dealer?"

"He wasn't a drug dealer." I walked over to the coffee maker and poured myself a cup. "He was a Gonzo employee. A chemist."

Blake's eyes widened. "So, like…he helped put together this formula?"

"Yeah, I assume so."

"Interesting." He moved to the refrigerator and started to take out one of the four remaining cans of Gonzo, but stopped when he caught me staring. "I mean, he kind of was a drug dealer, in a way. I can't get enough of this stuff."

"Yeah, but I suspect that's mostly marketing, endorsements. You saw that skater drinking it, you bought in. I'm sure a lot of people felt the same way when they saw you drinking it on Instagram—and you hated it back then."

"I'm telling you. It tastes different now."

"Okay, I believe you."

"I'm just saying…Maybe the guy got killed because of that formula. You know? I mean, like…maybe he was trying to sell it to some other company and Dylan found out and got pissed."

I took a swallow of my coffee and thought about it. "That idea would make a lot of sense," I said, "if Dylan Welch wasn't who he is."

"Meaning…"

"Meaning, according to his mom, he's got no interest in the business. He just thought up the name, went to a few meetings, and checked out, and now he's only in it for the parties and the influencers. He spends most of his time out of the office and leaves all the real work to his employees."

Blake shrugged. He poured himself a cup of coffee and gave me a look. "His mom said that."

"Yes. So?"

"I mean…how well does your mom know you?"

I drank my coffee. He drank his. "That's a really good point," I said.

"I know," Blake said.

"I think maybe those vitamins make you smart," I said.

"Nah," he said. "I've always been like this."

I took one of the chairs. He took the other. And there we were, Blake and me, actually using the breakroom.