Chapter 8

Chapter

Eight

T he morning’s somber gray sky matched the mood as Jon drove them to work. They managed to sleep after their heart-to-heart, but when the alarm went off, he had to peel his eyelids open and convince himself to slither from bed. A shower and coffee helped, but that didn’t make the day anything to look forward to.

“You know, I really am sorry about all of this.” Tracey stared out of the passenger window as they exited I-95. “I didn’t mean to bring down the vibe so much.”

While he still could, before they’d be under the scrutiny of coworkers, Jon plucked Tracey’s hand off his lap and brought it to his lips. “There is nothing for you to be sorry for.” He gave a sheepish little smile. “Everything you said last night makes perfect sense, and after work today, I have every intention of helping you start setting your townhouse to rights. If you want my help, that is.” He hesitated, not sure how much of his day’s plan he should disclose. As it was, he was walking the line of entrapment. “I’m not being quiet because of you. I just have a day in front of me. I’ll tell you about it tonight, if you don’t mind the company.”

Tracey seemed to deflate with relief and squeezed Jon’s fingers before pulling his hand back. “Help would be nice, but I don’t expect that.”

The snooping comment from the night before came back to him, and Jon nodded. “If you’d rather I stay out of your things, I can respect that, too.” How much they seemed to be tiptoeing around each other was a testament to how right Tracey was that they needed time to get to know each other for real. Forced proximity hadn’t been good for them.

“It’s not that at all.” Tracey fell quiet as they exited 95 and pointed toward Quantico. After a few minutes, he spoke again. “Hanging out at my house, unpacking my stuff, probably eating takeout… it’s not much of a date. It doesn’t sound very fun.”

The penny dropped. “Oh, you want an actual date, date.”

Tracey’s glare was playful. “You get the energy you give, Jon.”

He laughed. “Point taken. But how about I still come help you. I need to take you home with the stuff from my house anyway. And we can plan a decent actual date for this weekend while we eat takeout and get some of your stuff situated.”

“You’re not going to give up, are you?”

Jon laughed. “Nope. I’m not going to leave you to unpack that whole place by yourself. Besides, I saw how badly you’re limping today. I’m not going to just dump you on your doorstep and say, ‘See ya, wouldn’t want to be ya.’ I’m helping, Trace. Maybe we can invite Brian and Tristan and get it done that much faster if you don’t want it to feel like a bad date.”

“No.”

The instant reply surprised him. “Uh. Okay. I thought you had a good time the night they came over.”

Tracey closed his eyes and shook his head. “I did.” Classic confused body language, head shake with affirmative words. “I just don’t want more people I don’t know very well going through all my boxes.” He paused. “Or seeing me struggle.”

Ah. “You know Brian wouldn’t care, and I highly doubt, from what I know of Tristan, that he would either.”

“I care. At least until I get to know them better.”

The sour hint in Tracey’s tone gave Jon pause, but he didn’t push. “Okay. Just us, then.”

They reached the office, and Jon went in long enough to drop off his bag, stop into Sutherland’s office to update him on the day’s plan and get set up like they’d talked about the previous day, and he was back out the door with a quick goodbye to the team.

Nothing left but to face the ugly.

It was a two-and-a-half-hour drive to the Enlightened Covenant Ministries School in Silverdale, West Virginia, but it might as well have been another planet. Silverdale was the town time forgot, hidden in a valley between mountain ridges. A winding main street spawned offshoot roads where houses were built among dense woods that eventually swallowed the town’s edges.

Silverdale was once an enclave of coal miners and their families, but when the coal industry had died, many left in search of other opportunities. A handful stayed, relying on the land and the nearby Potomac River to provide. The meager downtown was roughshod, its brick and clapboard buildings harkening back to a bygone era.

To Jon’s eye, the town was one interested investor away from revitalization… or a single devastating storm from being buried in a mudslide or swept away in a flood. That it had limped along for the last several decades, its jaundiced economy gasping enough for the approximately two thousand residents to eke out a living was due in no small part to Enlightened Covenant Ministries.

During Jon’s research, he’d learned these organizations deliberately sought struggling towns. First, they thrived in the shadows of isolated areas, far enough on the outskirts where their activities couldn’t be too thoroughly scrutinized. Second, they became the town’s largest employer, giving the best hourly wage of any local business to foster gratitude not only from employees and their families, but also from the town government, such as it was. Then, if workers objected to the methods of “schooling,” they were reluctant to put their livelihood in jeopardy. They’d close ranks rather than let word spread and risk the town’s biggest slice of revenue up and leaving.

Everyone turned a blind eye because they needed the money so badly. It was painful how much was glossed over for the sake of putting food on the table.

Jon understood it, and he firmly put the blame where it was due: on the vultures who preyed on vulnerable people barely living above the poverty line in a town they were too scared to leave.

Today, he was going to exploit that hubris, that sense of untouchability, the snake thinking it was the only predator in the area.

Enter the mongoose.

The Ice Man cloaked himself in darkness, hoping it led him closer to Ethan Wright’s killer. Unfortunately, it meant he had to crawl around with the filth.

The long, winding mountain road allowed him to adopt his developed persona before he reached Silverdale. The complete fabrication would gain him access to the school and those who operated it. He understood he wouldn’t meet the owners of ECM—and maybe never would—but it was a start.

A sharp right-hand curve put him alongside the Potomac River and into Silverdale. He slowed to a stop at the town’s lone stoplight. It wouldn’t hurt to grab coffee and finish mental preparations, so when the light turned green, he drove one more block and pulled into the diner, a place aptly named The Justice Bar. Bar or not, it boasted the best PanCakes in the country. The photo showed flapjacks literally as thick as his wrist. His stomach was too unsettled for that, but he did have a hard-boiled egg, toast, and a couple of slices of bacon with his coffee. It helped, and he took the opportunity to ask a few questions of his haggard waitress, whose name tag read Anne .

“Can I get you anything else, sir? Another coffee?”

He slid his cup toward her, and while she poured, he gave a fatigued sigh and pulled a sticky note from his shirt pocket with an air of confusion. “Actually, maybe you could help me? I’m looking for the road out to”—he read from the sticky note—“Enlightened Covenant Ministries. Do you know where that is from here?”

Anne’s fingers tightened around the coffee pot’s handle as she finished pouring. “Sure. You turn right out of the parking lot and drive through town. About a mile past the last house, there’s a left turn into the trees marked by a sign that says ‘This way to Enlightenment.’ It’s a hand-carved wooden sign with a red painted border, kinda blends in unless you’re looking for it. Go left at that sign, about three hundred yards through the trees on that winding road. You’ll cross a bridge over the river, and after that you’ll find the place you’re looking for. There’s a gate you’ll have to stop at. If they’re expecting you, they’ll buzz you through.”

“Buzz me through? Sounds serious.” Jon raised his eyebrows, as if he didn’t already know the place was run like a prison.

Anne nodded, set the coffee pot on the table, and rifled through her tickets looking for his. She hadn’t asked him if he was ready for the check yet. She just set it down.

A quick glance around turned up several curious stares, most of them blank, and one or two suspicious.

“Most people who go out to ECM are serious people.” Anne turned toward her next table.

“Wait.” He stopped short of touching her arm to halt her, but he reached out like someone beseeching help. “I just have one question.” He put on a miserable, pleading expression.

Anne turned back, not exactly open but not rude. “Yes?”

“Are they helpful people?” He played up his desperation, as if he hadn’t noticed the rest of the diner had fallen silent.

There weren’t many tables in this tiny, hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon, but they were occupied with locals he’d guessed made The Justice Bar their morning routine.

Anne swallowed and glanced around the room as though seeking help out of the conversation. No one rescued her. “That depends on your definition of help. If you’ll excuse me.” She darted off, and avoided him the rest of the time he sat finishing his coffee and pondering her answer and the general suspicion of the rest of the patrons.

After leaving a generous tip, Jon followed her directions and found the turnoff she’d described. Anne had been right—the wooded sign against the forested backdrop wasn’t very visible unless you were looking for it. He bounced along the single-lane track through the trees and across the bridge above whitewater rapids, then came to a stop at the guardhouse where a uniformed man flipped lazily through a magazine. A swing-arm gate blocked entry into a small blacktop parking lot next to a log cabin-style A-frame building. There were no fences or other barriers around the grounds, until he realized the terrain was the barrier. If one were to escape, they’d face mountain terrain, wildlife, and there would be no swimming that river.

“Can I help you?”

“Jon Mitchell. I have an appointment with Celia Greenwood and Roger McCallister.” He passed over the alias driver’s license the Bureau had created long ago, any time he needed to go under the radar on a case.

The guard scrutinized it, turning it over. Apparently satisfied, he scanned it through a machine similar to what Jon’s doctor’s office used to capture his insurance card and passed it back. The swing-arm lifted.

“I’ll let them know you’re here and they’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Jon parked and grabbed the folder of paperwork he’d doctored up with Patrick Byrne’s help. His dress shoes clacking on the sidewalk leading to the front doors made a surprisingly loud echo in the surrounding trees and rising valley walls.

The front doors swung open, and a man and woman greeted him with wide, welcoming smiles.

“Mr. Mitchell? Please come in.”

Showtime.

He entered the relatively small building like no other school he’d ever been to, and shook both Roger McCallister’s and Celia Greenwood’s hands. He maintained his somber air like a cloak. This was not a cheerful or social visit.

“It’s nice to meet you both.” Polite only due to manners, not sincerity. “I appreciate you seeing me so quickly. I apologize my wife couldn’t be here in person. She’s not quite herself at the moment, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Celia clucked her tongue, her expression an attempt at sympathy but her underlying calculation slipped through even with heavy makeup. “We completely understand. When a family is in crisis, it’s difficult for everyone involved. Someone needs to keep the home operating safely. If you were both here, who would be there making sure the Devil didn’t sink his hooks in any further?”

She was excellent at pretending compassion. Only her flat, shark-like eyes betrayed her. Oh, her irises may have been brown instead of black, but her gaze was nevertheless that of a predator. With her hair in a tight chignon and her pantsuit ironed to razor sharp lines, he read her to be the iron-fisted matron who co-ran this school with zero qualms about the goings on behind closed doors.

Jon clamped down his natural disdain by clinging to his fake persona. “Exactly. Our son needs one of us while the other is here. I’m glad you understand.”

Roger McCallister rocked forward on his toes. “Of course we do. Many who operate facilities like this have stood in your exact shoes.” He clasped his hands in front of him like a benevolent prayer leader, which couldn’t be further from the truth. This lean man with a beak-like visage thanks to a slightly too-large nose held himself like a man used to observing people and judging them. “Let’s go somewhere we can speak in more detail and get to know you and your family situation better.”

He led Jon through the small lobby to a staircase. One big office took up the whole second floor, loft-style. One side overlooked the lobby, and the back wall was made of windows showcasing the grounds where several buildings had been built within the valley. A small desk was tucked into the corner, but the space was predominantly dedicated to a conference table with eight chairs.

This was the administration building. The students were held in the other buildings, which could all be observed through the windows. He expected there were cameras everywhere and a central monitoring room somewhere, though he couldn’t be sure it was in this building.

Roger gestured for Jon to sit at the head of the table while he and Celia took the side that allowed them to look out of the windows rather than over the railing to the lobby.

The décor was typical of a mountain log cabin, and unremarkable for it. Jon set his file folder in front of him and clasped his hands on top. “Where should I start?”

“How about you tell us about your son?” Celia came across almost gentle, and Jon had to hand it to her—she played reassuring well. Except for not blinking often enough. She seemed as though she was waiting for him to serve her dinner.

Little did she know his offering included a poisoned chalice.

He began to tell them about his fabricated family, including the sixteen-year-old son named Aiden, whom he and his wife Annabelle had recently discovered kissing the boy they’d believed to be his best friend.

“We’ve gone to Memorial Crossroads Baptist Church for years, and Aiden knows this sin will keep him out of God’s Kingdom. I cannot, for the life of me, understand why he would jeopardize his faith and our family’s reputation with the Church for this… this filth.” The words tasted like ash.

Celia tilted her head.

She’s not sure she buys it.

He had to do better. Reading the script wasn’t good enough. Jon closed his eyes like he was trying to compose himself, and sank into the darkness within.

The Ice Man descended another layer, frosted over several more degrees.

Instead of acting like a bigoted but concerned father afraid for his son’s eternal soul, Jon became that father. He dissociated from his true self and inhabited the mind of a different man, one apart from Jon Anderson. That was the only way he could pull this off. When he opened his eyes again, he was Jon Mitchell, distraught husband to Annabelle and father of Aiden, the gay son he was determined to save from hellfire, according to his Baptist beliefs. Enlightened Covenant Ministries was a place he believed in.

“He’s been led astray. But don’t worry.” Celia put her hand atop his in a manner meant to reassure, and maybe check if he had physical tells that didn’t match her experience of troubled parents. “We’ve seen this hundreds of times, and we’ve had great success in bringing teen boys and girls back into the arms of our Lord.”

“Really?” Jon glanced her direction, and then past her to the tall filing cabinets in the corner. Would they hold the hundreds of names she spoke of? As deep as he could let himself sink into Mitchell’s persona, he could not, would not abandon the reason he was really here. “Can you tell me how?”

Roger spread his hands flat to the table and leaned in. “It’s a specially designed program based on a mix of psychology and our faith. You follow Baptist teachings, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Our philosophies fit very much in line with the Baptist faith. Celia?”

On cue, she rose and went to the small desk, returning with a tri-fold pamphlet she gave to Jon with a gentle, creepy smile. He opened it to see enthusiastic teens in outdoor settings. They looked healthy, happy, as though they were having a good time. He knew it was bullshit, but it was convincing bullshit.

“Our program is a mix of psychology and faith, but we also adopt techniques the military uses to build up soldiers during basic training. Our students, who we call Disciples, undergo a curriculum designed to show them what they’re capable of as people and followers of God. We put them through physical and mental rigors that teach them their strengths and capabilities by testing and challenging them to overcome their fears. We teach them to choose a better path, one God intended. We show them their power and honor along the way. They learn to avoid the pitfalls of the dangerous lifestyle that brought them here, and what those dangers mean if they give in to temptation.”

Roger sounded so matter-of-fact, considering what he was truly speaking of—the mental and physical torture of LGBTQ+ minors. Jon maintained his stoic expression because, as a parent seeking these promises, this was exactly what Jon Mitchell wanted to hear. Jon Anderson, however, needed a Silkwood shower.

Roger went on. “We use a points-based system. Every Disciple enters the program with a ten-point baseline. Every achievement earns points. When a Disciple reaches twenty points, they move up to Disciple II, and their curriculum becomes more advanced. When a Disciple reaches fifty points, they’re considered an Advanced Disciple. At this juncture, they’re assigned a Disciple I who’s just entered the program. They become a mentor, and they’re responsible for shepherding the newcomer. They work with the Disciple I, show them the ropes, and maintain the proper trajectory through Discipleship.

“Once an Advanced Disciple reaches seventy-five points, they are considered a graduate, or a Docent. They’re then given the choice to continue on and counsel Disciples, relocate to other ECM locations, or become full-fledged graduates. Some Docents return to volunteer for short stints as their professional lives permit, and others maintain the Godly life as ECM graduates, embarking on a new life to begin their own families.”

Jon sat back. “That all sounds… incredible. Have you got statistics on your success rates?”

Roger gestured to the brochure. “Some statistics are in there. But as you can understand given your personal situation, many of our graduates who choose not to remain volunteers or go on to be employed in other ECM locations prefer anonymity for their families’ sakes. We don’t publicize success stories, and we don’t advertise. Much of our enrollment comes through word of mouth, from trusted friends who share their successes in confidence.”

“Yes, that’s a very good point, Roger.” Celia tapped her forefinger on the table as she relaxed into her chair. “I’m wondering how you heard of our organization, Mr. Mitchell.”

“My wife actually found you. She was told of ECM by the Wright family.” It was a gamble, dropping a victim’s name, but without a roster of their clients—he refused to think of them as Disciples—there was no good way to know whose name could be the key to access.

Celia nodded knowingly. “Walter and Joyce Wright have been great supporters of our organization. After Ethan became a Docent, he volunteered for a few years until he started his own family. Walter and Joyce continued making donations for many years, often in their grandchildren’s names.”

Jon could only hope they wouldn’t be thorough enough to follow up with the Wrights. Even if they did, however, he’d covered himself. Many of these places gave kickbacks to those helping grow enrollment numbers through word of mouth. If the Wrights wanted that sweet bonus, they’d lie and say of course they knew the Mitchells.

Jon used that to his advantage, having already dropped a thank-you note in the Wrights’ mail, signed, With gratitude for the recommendation in our time of need, Jon and Annabelle Mitchell . Underhanded as it was, he was counting on it being lost in the wave of condolence cards, the name Annabelle standing out just enough to jog a memory. Of course the Wrights wouldn’t remember a recommendation they’d never given, but they’d remember the note, and they’d want the kickback. Even a shed snakeskin kept its shape.

“How long will Aiden need to be here?” He steered the conversation back to where Jon Mitchell would be most interested: the new enrollee.

“That’s mostly up to the Disciple. They advance through the program at their own pace. Some take to the curriculum faster than others. We aren’t going to be dishonest here.” Roger held his hands out placatingly. “There are Disciples that adjust with difficulty at first, and they lose a few of the points they’re initially given. On occasion, disciplinary measures are required.”

“What sorts of measures?”

He had to hand it to them; they didn’t bat an eye. “It’s pretty individual to the Disciple, but we try to come up with disciplines that teach.” Celia let out a fond chuckle. “We had one Disciple who refused to work her program, so her discipline was to carry a three-gallon bottle of water wherever she went. She wasn’t allowed to put it down until she agreed to work her program. She later told us the strength she built carrying around that heavy bottle felt empowering, after she overcame the initial discomfort and realized she was only hurting herself.”

Jon was horrified, but he couldn’t show it. Instead, his darkness bubbled through with a chuckle. “That doesn’t sound bad.” It was downright abusive, forcing a girl to carry that heavy a weight without setting it down. He presumed she even had to shower, use the bathroom, and even try to sleep while holding the water bottle. “Do you have classroom studies as well? I’ll be pulling Aiden out of school. I don’t want to disrupt his education.”

“Of course. We provide our Disciples an education while they’re under ECM care. It’s faith-based to accommodate the teachings many of our families seek in their everyday lives. The only difference between their regular schooling and ECM is many of their teachers live onsite because we are a full-boarding facility. We must supervise our Disciples at all times.”

“Can I meet some of them? The students, I mean.”

“There are always a few Disciples moving from activity to activity who are able to meet parents. In fact, we’ve arranged for two of the Docents to take you on a short tour of the grounds. Now, understand we cannot show you everything. There are classes we won’t disrupt, and we have privacy concerns surrounding the accommodations and Disciples’ identities. But we can show you the multi-purpose areas where we congregate for church services, meals, and a few other areas of interest.”

Jon was surprised. He didn’t expect to see much of the property, especially without a warrant. Perhaps he’d get lucky and seize an opportunity to check files.

Beneath his shirt, the microphone strapped to his chest, which he’d switched on after leaving the diner, kept recording. The pen in his shirt pocket, retrofitted with a tiny video camera in the cap, gathered silent images they’d scrutinize later.

If things went the way Jon planned, his poisoned chalice would result in a no-knock warrant for a raid where they could confiscate the security camera network wired to monitor the Disciples before ECM had a chance to disable it.

Maybe he could find out where the central surveillance hub was on his tour so they could hit that first.

Celia and Roger stood, and Jon followed suit. “I cannot thank you enough for such a gracious welcome. I can already picture Aiden coming here.”

“This way. I think Tim and Beth are waiting for us in the multi-purpose room.” Roger held the door open and Celia led him outside and toward another log cabin-style building, this one bigger and with a security guard standing at the door.

“ O kay, I think that’s everything.” Jon shoved his hands into his pockets as Tracey lifted the garment bag with his work suits. He turned to hang them up, unzipping as he disappeared into the closet nowhere near as big as Jon’s, so he wasn’t sure he heard Jon’s question.

“What?” He emerged to find Jon looking sheepish.

“Listen, I hate to do this, and I know it’s the opposite of what I said this morning, but would you be deeply upset if I asked for a raincheck on tonight?” He bit his lip. “I’m sorry. I just….” He blew out a big breath and sat on the corner of the bed, every line of his body defeated. “I don’t have a lot to give after the day I had.”

“Then that’s exactly why you should stay.” Tracey pushed aside clothes and climbed behind Jon, digging his thumbs into the granite slabs of his shoulders.

“You’re coming back home because you were overwhelmed and wanted more than a crash pad. The last thing I want to do is pile on.”

“And the last thing I want is to send you back to your place alone when your demons are loud. Talk to me.” He dug into a particularly difficult knot. “Tell me about your day.”

“I already did.”

“You gave me the Unit 4 debrief. Now I want the part that’s giving you these boulders.” Instead of digging in deeper, he draped himself over Jon’s back and kissed a spot behind his ear. “Tell me. Just because I came home doesn’t mean I don’t care how you feel. If something’s bothering you, spill. I have the security clearance to listen. They even gave me a shiny badge to prove it. Well, it’s a leather wallet, but still.”

Jon gripped Tracey’s forearms and leaned into him, releasing another Herculean breath. “Fine. But then I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“Deal.”

“These people were disgusting. Couching torture in words like ‘points system,’ ‘curriculum,’ and ‘challenging them to choose better than temptation.’ They called the kids ‘Disciples.’ They make the older ones inflict pain on the new enrollees as part of some sick mentorship, and if they don’t do it, they lose points and take longer to graduate. Once they do graduate, they’re given the chance to become counselors and move to other locations. Continue the abuse. I wanted to vomit.”

Tracey tightened his arms. “Sounds awful.”

“It’s horrific. I know what really goes on at these places, and of course, they never let the parents see that part. In all honesty, some parents would still endorse these camps if it means their kid is ‘converted’ from being queer.” Jon made air quotes and shuddered.

Tracey wanted to take away the revulsion, but he didn’t know how. “What can I do to help?”

After a long moment of silence, Jon hung his head. “That’s just it. We can take them down, but another one sprouts up in its place. You should have seen the kids who showed me around, Tracey.” He shifted sideways, hiking a leg onto the bed as he met Tracey’s eyes. “Tim and Beth. They pretended to be a couple, but it was so obviously an act for my benefit. I felt like I’d stepped into a real-life Stepford episode. All I could think about was what these poor kids endured so they’d cooperate like that. All smiles, enthusiasm, and promising me that my fake kid would find his true self there. It was so sad. I slipped for a split second and got mad on their behalf, and I swear, they looked so terrified they hadn’t convinced me to pay the steep fee, I thought they were going to commit hari-kari right there.” He shook his head.

Tracey took one of Jon’s hands, not sure how to ask. “I’m not as up on the research as you are. What happens at these places?”

Jon’s eyes seemed to glaze over as he talked, describing horrors Tracey couldn’t imagine. How they would brainwash the kids by associating graphic and gory imagery with LGBTQ+ Pride parades, same-sex couples holding hands, kissing, or otherwise existing. They used sleep deprivation, only allowing rest if the kids agreed they were straight. Another brainwashing tactic was inflicting pain while showing queer images. Sexual assault was considered a therapy to horrify the kids against same-sex attraction. The more violent, the better.

The longer Jon talked, the deader his voice became, until Tracey cupped his face and shook him gently. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to say any more.” He threw his arms around him and held on. “Now you know for sure Ethan Wright was a victim of ECM. They knew his parents’ names. It is not a long shot our guy is associated with this place or one like it. If he’s choosing people from the camps, it’s reasonable he wouldn’t select current kids because that brings scrutiny. But part of the victimology is these men may be graduates. Maybe not all of them, but it’s a start.”

“Yes.” Jon’s voice was thick, even muffled by Tracey’s shoulder. “If I’d had enough time, or a chance to slip away, I might’ve gotten a look at their files, seen if I could find names of board members or investors or something. But the main office is basically a big fishbowl. Windows all the way around. It’s a boarding school with guards, so the only way we’re getting a look at the files is through a warrant. I want to take this place down.” He pulled back, holding his arms with a desperation Tracey hadn’t felt from him… ever. “I wrote the check for the deposit, so they have to cash it. There’s our warrant. Patrick will follow the money to the bigger fish upstream, but I’m not holding my breath. It’s probably shell company after shell company. But this location, I’m taking it down. I cannot tell you how glad I am West Virginia is a one-party recording state. I got all their vile shit on record.”

Tracey kissed Jon’s forehead. “You did great. Not many people could go into the snake pit like that and make it believable.”

Jon scoffed. “Yeah, I’m a little bit broken, too.”

“No.” Tracey firmed his voice. “You’re an excellent agent, and you played the part you had to play to gather the information to take these disgusting people down.”

“That’s just a fancy way of saying I’m a good liar.”

Tracey hesitated, then pasted on a smile. “I already knew that.”

Jon narrowed his eyes. “Did you now?”

“I’ve seen you in action. Perry and Sarena have had me going through old case videos for training, and I’ve watched a few of your interviews with suspects. It’s helpful.” He hoped the airy answer would both lighten the mood and change the subject.

He didn’t want to get into knowing about Brian. Not after the day Jon had had. Now was not the time, and besides, a small lie by omission wasn’t that big a deal, even if it did still bug Tracey he hadn’t told him about dating Brian. Even after the other night in Jon’s basement.

It worked. Jon let it go. “I’m sorry. Tonight was supposed to be about making your house a home, and I bring horror into your sanctuary.”

“Hey, I’m here for you. Besides, it goes with the job, and I knew what I was getting into. I can handle it. Now, let’s put everything aside, all the bad mojo, all the stupid medical crap, and just unpack boxes, get pizza, and throw on some music. I’ll even let you make the playlist.”

Jon rubbed his face and then shook out his hands like he was expelling ghosts. “You’ve got yourself a deal. No more work talk. You pick what boxes need unpacking, and I’ll call for the food.”

Tracey stood and pulled Jon to his feet. Threading his arms around Jon’s waist, he got as close as possible. “I’m glad you’re here. And I’m glad you want to be.” He kissed him, letting himself linger.

Maybe the start wasn’t the most promising, but the evening could only get better from here. Tracey would make sure of it.