Chapter 9

Chapter

Nine

“ Y ou ready for this?”

“Yeah.” Tracey stretched his neck. “He’s a witness, not a suspect, so it shouldn’t be too much pressure.”

The BAU’s bullpen was surrounded by an elevated ring of glass-enclosed offices and conference rooms. Tracey and Sarena were in one of those conference rooms now, preparing to join a video call with Dalton Lewis’s ex-boyfriend, Frank Robinson, and his attorney.

The Chicago police had gone at Frank pretty hard during the initial interrogation. Standard investigative practice had been that Lewis’s killer was someone in his social circle. As such, Frank Robinson had been the prime suspect, particularly because of the on-again, off-again nature of their relationship. He was, understandably, wary of talking to any law enforcement, especially a new investigating agency.

He’d only agreed to this interview because they’d assured him new information had led to a different suspect type. He was no longer a person of interest. His lawyer’s presence was an added layer of protection, which had taken a few days to arrange.

“I’m not entirely sure how to urge a belligerent witness to talk.” Tracey had an affinity for getting witnesses to open up, which served him well as a police psychologist and at the Champaign resident agency as a new FBI agent before he’d joined the BAU. However, advanced notice the witness was reticent put him on the spot.

Sarena wasn’t having it, though. “You’ll be great. We’re establishing connections, not trying to catch inconsistencies. The tone of questions is entirely different. This interview is much more relaxed, and he’ll feel it right away. That should help.”

Tracey studied Dalton Lewis’s phone data. He was the first victim in Chicago—possibly the killer’s first victim. As soon as Patrick had delivered the information, Tracey flipped to the Smoldr info for a username.

Nothing.

No conversations arranging the hookup that killed him.

Hopefully Lewis’s ex could shed light on the victim’s last days.

This conference room’s large, wall-mounted flatscreen connected wirelessly to the laptop that ran the conferencing software. Sarena, as the call’s host, began testing the audio and video feeds while they waited for the others to join.

Frank Robinson and his lawyer appeared in a similar conference room at the attorney’s office. Frank seemed out of place in the sleek room, wearing a black tank top with a stylized pig snout logo across the chest in the colors of the extended pride flag. Tracey recognized it as the Nasty Pig logo, the company that first celebrated leather subculture. The kink community embraced the brand as a legacy.

Frank’s spiky bleached hair, silver jewelry, and tattoos surprised Tracey. Dalton Lewis had been a marketing executive, so he’d expected the victim’s partner—even an ex—to match his conservative energy.

Maybe the bad boy look was the appeal.

“Mr. Robinson. Thank you for agreeing to speak with us,” Sarena greeted when Tracey’s silence dragged on too long. He really needed to get better about suppressing his reactions.

“May we ask what this interview is regarding?” Julia Hobson, Frank’s attorney, sat beside him in a gray power suit that made her blend a little too well into the background. Her wine-red lipstick contrasted, at least.

Tracey mentally shook himself and got with the program. “We have some follow-up questions regarding Dalton Lewis’s death that the Chicago Police Department wouldn’t have known to ask during their investigation.”

“Have you found who killed Dalton?” Frank’s eyes sparked with either fury or fervent hope. Tracey couldn’t decide which. The demand wasn’t unexpected.

“I’m sorry, no. But that’s why we’re here. New information has come to the FBI’s attention about a possible connection between Mr. Lewis’s case and those in other jurisdictions. We’re hoping you can help us, Mr. Robinson.”

Frank sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, almost petulant, while scowling at the table. But his lawyer homed in on Tracey’s explanation. “A connection to others? You mean there may be other victims attributed to Dalton’s killer?”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine.” Sarena kept her tone neutral. “We can’t yet confirm.” Which, of course, was somewhat of a lie. They knew Powell’s death was related to Wright’s because of the fingerprint. The DNA testing was still pending.

Tracey focused on Frank. They needed him to talk. How could Tracey make that happen?

“Frank.” The man’s jaw tensed at being addressed by his first name, but he otherwise didn’t acknowledge being spoken to. “We can’t catch the guy without your help. You knew Dalton best, right?”

Frank closed his eyes as though the statement pained him. His lawyer leaned in close and whispered to him. The meeting equipment didn’t pick up her words, but Tracey could speculate from her expression—sympathetic and compassionate with a couple of small nods of encouragement.

She understood they weren’t after Frank any longer. This wasn’t the persecution her presence was intended to thwart.

Finally, Frank straightened from his slouch and looked right at the camera. He inhaled and let it out slowly, then began to speak.

“Dalton and I were very on and off. Our relationship was probably the most serious of my life, but it was also one of the most toxic, aside from my parents before I permanently cut contact with them. I don’t know if I can tell you what you want to know. When Dalton was killed, we weren’t together. I blocked him the week before, and I was determined for it to stick that time. It’s what I needed for myself, even if it hurts like hell now.”

Tracey picked up his pen and began to take notes. “Frank, I’m not here to judge you or Dalton. I’m here to understand him. Anything you can tell us about who he was, what he did aside from work, who would attract his attention, and how he conducted his relationships, all of it will help.”

Frank puffed his cheeks and blew a breath that slowly deflated them. “Okay, well, Dalton and I were bad for each other from the beginning, but that was probably what attracted us. We were each other’s brand of crazy, or so we thought. It turns out we were just keeping our parents’ abuse cycle going.”

Tracey’s pen didn’t lift from his notepad for nearly an hour as Frank spoke. Julia Hobson interjected very little, especially once Sarena made it very clear the FBI had no interest in prosecuting Frank for distributing party drugs related to his or Dalton’s chemsex habits.

“We found chemsex freeing at first, but after a while, he didn’t really want to be fucked up every single time he slept with someone. Dalton and I didn’t have a lot of fights about being open, but we did fight about being high. He kept telling me it wasn’t a good look for his job, but I blew him off. My job didn’t care.” He tilted his head. “I’m a tattoo artist. As long as I’m sober while slinging ink, which I always am, then I’m good. I guess his work had different standards.”

“And he was a”—Tracey consulted the file on Lewis—“marketing strategist?”

“Yes. But don’t ask me what that means. He used to talk about his work, but I tuned him out. None of it made sense to me. Something to do with ads on the internet. Most of the time, it was drama with the catty women in his department. You want to talk about a toxic environment.” Frank pointed at the screen, his mouth turned up with a wry smirk. “My mother could have taken lessons from those ladies on how to be passive-aggressive.” His smile fell away. “But Dalton knew how to deal with them, thanks to how he grew up. He never got caught up in their petty competitions and shit.” He waved a hand. “Anyway, none of those girls killed him. They were all fake boo-hooing at his funeral, but they’re not the real villains here.”

“Right. So Dalton had a rough childhood?”

Frank nodded. “Yep. His parents and mine could have belonged to the same cult. They all worshipped at the altar of money. We didn’t meet until our mid-twenties, but we had identical coming out stories. We were both closeted until right before we turned eighteen. Then, for some reason, we thought it would be a good idea to tell the parents we were gay, and none of them took it well. We got thrown out.

“Dalton did better than I did. He managed to put himself through college and get a degree. I relied on… less legal means to support myself until I got my tattooing apprenticeship and my mentor helped me get out of the gutter.” He sneered at his hands. “But once a gutter rat, always a gutter rat. I met Dalton when he came in for some ink on his back, and we hit it off. I’m not proud of it, but I’m the one who introduced him to fucking on GHB, and he loved it.

“Our first year together, we went through guys on Halstead like we were on a mission. Honestly, it wasn’t healthy, even though that was the most stable point of our relationship. Then he started pulling away. Partly because he didn’t want the drugs as much anymore because of his job, but also because he started needing things in bed that I couldn’t give him.”

For the first time, Frank’s discomfort showed through his tough-guy fa?ade.

Tracey had an inkling, thanks to Stuart Lang’s honesty about Ethan Wright. “Did he need to be spoken to in a way that made you uncomfortable?”

Frank snapped his head up, eyes wide. He swallowed, like the next words were difficult. “Yes. He needed….”

“Degradation?” Tracey was gentle, completely non-judgmental.

“Yes.”

If the meeting hadn’t been over a computer, Tracey would have bet they’d have seen Frank’s eyes shine. He said nothing, letting the silence spur Frank into continuing.

“The humiliation he craved was too close to the shit my parents said when they kicked me out. ‘Faggot. You’re nothing. You’ll never be anything. No one will ever love you, cocksucker.’ Things like that. I”—Frank choked on the words, dropping his gaze to his clenched fists on the table. He uncurled his fingers and rubbed them gently, as though he was purposefully being kind to himself while the memories of someone else’s unkindness pummeled him.

“That must have been difficult. Caring for someone who internalized the worst insults you’d fought so hard to overcome.”

“Yes.” Frank’s hoarse voice didn’t stop him from going on. “I begged him not to make me say that stuff, so our compromise was he’d find other people who would. That worked for a while.”

“Until he found someone who took it too far.” Sarena drew the obvious conclusion.

This time, when Frank raised his face, the tears spilled over and tracked down his cheeks, picked up as trails reflecting light. “Yes. I’ve been saying that from the beginning. This was some kind of kink gone wrong. I’m not one to shame the community.” He pointed to his shirt. “I’m part of it. But every group has their bad apples, and we’re no different. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt, and the fucking Chicago PD pigs wouldn’t fucking listen.”

Tracey put down his pen and clasped his hands. “Frank, we’re listening. I cannot give you details, but the picture you’re painting is a similar shade to other paintings. Do you understand?”

His slow nod and hopeful expression were almost those of a different person than he’d been at the meeting’s start. It transformed him into someone without the walls of anger, and Tracey got a glimpse of what he must’ve been like before he’d been unfairly trampled over.

“What happens now?”

Sarena took the question. “We’re conducting forensic testing on all the evidence we’ve gathered, and that includes from Dalton’s case. The FBI has resources most city and state forensics labs don’t, some of the most cutting-edge science available. We’re also getting warrants for information about the victims’ last movements, which will help us pinpoint any common interactions.”

Frank seemed to understand. He looked eager. “I can’t tell you a lot about Dalton’s last week because I had no contact with him. But I’ll help however I can.”

“Do you know his phone unlock code and social media passwords?”

“Yes.”

“Would you be willing to share them with us?”

The Chicago departments overseeing both Dalton Lewis’s and Malcolm Irwin’s cases had agreed to ship all the physical evidence to the FBI labs for analysis. There were tests the FBI could run that state labs couldn’t do because they were too backed up, didn’t have the budget, and the FBI had better technology. The previous day, both men’s phones had been overnighted. They should arrive any time.

“Yes, I’ll give those to you. It feels like betraying him, but he was never precious about his phone with me. Not really. If it keeps someone else from getting hurt and helps catch his killer, I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.” Sarena flipped her file closed, clearly signaling she didn’t intend to ask anything further.

Frank’s cooperation felt big enough to Tracey that thanking him seemed inadequate. He related to the man more than he could possibly know. Then he remembered what happened to Frank when he’d come out.

God, what if his parents reacted the same way? They couldn’t throw him out, and he was financially independent, but they could cut off contact. He didn’t think they would, but who really knew?

This wasn’t the time or the place, nor should he get personal with an interview subject, but he wanted Frank to know this interview wasn’t some cold, unfeeling video call that would be forgotten as soon as they disconnected.

“Frank, on a more personal note, I think you’re a very brave man for helping us, and more so for everything you’ve survived. You shouldn’t have had to. The FBI is dedicating considerable resources to determining what happened to Dalton and the others. It may seem like cold comfort, but I want you to know I’ve heard you. We’re listening. We’ll do everything we can.”

Frank stared at him. The only response for several seconds was slow blinking. Then he gave a quick nod. His attorney worked out details on passing over the unlock code and passwords and thanked them as Sarena concluded the call. There were a few minutes of silence as she saved the recording to Unit 4’s shared folders. Then she turned to Tracey.

“Are you okay?”

“This one is hitting a little close to home.” He kept his voice low because he didn’t want to be overheard, even if the door to the conference room was closed. Someone could walk in at any moment.

She cocked her head. “The parents having a bad reaction to their coming out?”

“It’s on my mind. I haven’t told mine yet, but they’re talking about a holiday visit, and I need to tell them before then. It’s kinda eating me inside. Is it that obvious?”

“You’ve been a bit moody this week? I don’t know. Just a hunch. Perry said you were okay the other day, then had a phone call, and afterward, were… less okay. I’m here if you want to talk about it.”

“I appreciate that, but now’s not the time.”

“It is if it’s messing up your headspace.”

“I’ll be okay. Let’s just get through the next one.”

Later that afternoon, Tracey shut down his computer early.

“Physical therapy appointment?” Jon glanced over from his screens, then checked his watch.

“Yeah, but don’t worry about driving me. I already ordered an Uber.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. I didn’t want to pull you out of work again.” He stood and donned his suit jacket, then bid the rest of the team goodbye.

He felt only a little guilty about lying.

Thanking the Uber driver, he exited the car and stared across the parking lot at the entrance to The Square Glass. The sky had stopped threatening rain and finally followed through, dropping a steady soak that had him wishing he could run. By the time he made it into the bar, cold rivulets slithered down the back of his collar, chilling him to the bone.

Or maybe that was anticipation of the conversation he was about to have with Brian.

Tracey limped through the crowded seating area to the horseshoe-shaped bar. The door next to it constantly flapped open with waitstaff bearing tray after tray of food from the small kitchen.

There was a burlesque feel to the place. Tufted leather booths lined the walls, above which hung lamps sporting bare bulbs whose tips had been dipped to dim them. Above the bar, many bulbs configured like those in a performer’s vanity mirror in a dressing room shone bright.

The bar stools were also tufted leather with backrests, and there were more people seated than Tracey expected for 4:30 on a Tuesday afternoon.

Then he saw the chalkboard on the wall boasting happy hour specials, and realized he’d hit the bar right at the beginning of Taco Tuesday. There was a steady hum of conversation at the packed tables, and many people munched on tacos, taquitos, nachos, and tortilla chips with salsa and guacamole. Margaritas in many colors filled large glasses rimmed with multi-colored salt.

He looked closer. There were people with painted faces, wearing costumes, and the cocktail waiters and waitresses were also dressed up.

He’d totally forgotten today was Halloween.

That explained the popularity.

He threaded his way through the tables to the bar, thanking his luck at the fortuitous snagging of a barstool just as someone in scrubs with fake blood down the front vacated it to meet their friends.

“What can I get for you?” Brian asked on autopilot, then did a double-take. “Holy shitballs, are you playing hooky?” He wiped his hands on a terry cloth towel and then slung it over his shoulder. The sleeves of his white button-down shirt were rolled to his elbows, and he wore the tight shorts and suspenders of a German bartender during Oktoberfest.

“I’m at ‘physical therapy.’” Tracey made finger quotes. “But I need to talk to you.”

Brian raised a brow. “I’m kind of busy, but I can get a break in about thirty minutes when the next bartender comes on shift. Drink?”

“Arctic Circle.”

With a nod, Brian made him a double without asking, and set the cocktail in front of him. “Thirty minutes.”

Tracey raised the glass to acknowledge and Brian was off to help other customers.

Half an hour later, he appeared with a refill and a platter of nachos. “Come with me.”

Tracey grabbed his second drink and followed him down a hallway to a small back room with a couple of small tables marred with cigarette burns from the days when smoking indoors was still allowed.

“The German thing doesn’t really go with the Mexican food thing.” Tracey sat when Brian did, trying to stay lighthearted for just a little longer.

“Yeah, well, sombreros get in the way and ponchos are heavy and hot. What’s up? This is quite the surprise.” Brian popped a loaded chip into his mouth and chewed. Then groaned in clear pleasure. “I both love and hate it when the kitchen fucks up a table’s food. Free dinner, but also, I’m going to have to work out for a week. Help me eat these.”

Tracey wasn’t sure he could eat while asking Brian what he needed to. He picked up a chip without much on it.

“Why do you think Jon didn’t tell me you two were a thing before he got together with me?”

Brian stopped chewing for several seconds to stare, but then resumed so he could swallow. He had to sip from his water bottle to clear everything before he could speak.

“I’m not sure what you’re looking for. This is probably a conversation you should have with Jon, not me.”

“I’m asking you. If I talk to him, he’ll just reassure me everything’s fine, that it’s not a big deal, and we’re all good. I’m asking you because you’ll tell me the truth.”

Brian frowned. “If you don’t think Jon’ll tell you the truth, then your relationship’s got bigger problems than I can help you fix.”

Frustrated, Tracey sat back and blew out a breath. “Come on, Brian. You’re his best friend, and for the Ice Man, that’s saying something. You know him better than anyone. All I want to know is if he and I are on the same page.” He ran a hand through his hair. “This is my first queer relationship, and I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Unable to contain a burst of nervous energy, he got out of his chair to pace the small break room. Brian followed his progress with his gaze, but his expression stayed unreadable.

Tracey didn’t have a lot of room, so he spun on a heel and stared Brian down, hands on his hips. “Look, there’s no roadmap for this. TV, movies, all the books, they’re all straight couples. All my life, I was told what steps to take with crushes, dating, engagement, marriage, kids, the whole works. With women. It’s not like that with a man. I feel so blind.”

“Oh, I know.” Brian’s tone was gently sarcastic as he turned sideways in his chair, draping his elbow over the seat back. “Welcome to gay dating life, hon. We’ve had to define our relationships from scratch. But don’t you see? That’s the fun of it. No boring rules. No prearranged expectations. No gender roles. Monogamy what? You do what works for you . You asking me what to expect about your relationship with Jon?” He dusted salt off his fingers. “I can’t answer that. Only Jon can, so go ask him. ”

Tracey sat again, feeling defeated. “I just want to know if I should be bothered he didn’t tell me he dated you. Or if this is some kind of queer thing that’s so normal it’s absurd for me to be upset.”

“Whoa. No.” Brian held up a hand, then pointed to the nachos. “Seriously, Tracey. Have some chips and listen for a second. I’ll tell you what I feel comfortable with, and nothing more. The rest, you have to get from Jon.”

Tracey obeyed, but reluctantly.

“Jon and I never dated. We were friends with benefits. That’s all it ever was. Scratching an itch, no feelings. If he didn’t tell you, it’s probably because our arrangement didn’t even qualify as a thing that needed telling. Or he didn’t want you thinking our friendship now means something it genuinely doesn’t. We aren’t exes because we were never a couple. But I honestly don’t know why he didn’t tell you.”

Tracey shoved a chip in his mouth, feeling petulant without really understanding why. By the time he finished chewing, all that was left was confusion. “I have talked to him, not necessarily about this, but about us in general. He says all the right things, but….” Elbows on the table, he put his face in his hands, then dropped them, still restless. “Look, I’m into him. Maybe forever into him. It feels like it’s all happening sooo fast. It seems like he’s just as into me, and every time I hint anything about our future, he’s so easygoing about it. Like the meeting-my-parents thing.

“But then Tristan made a good point about not telling them I’m bi in front of Jon, and he’s just so agreeable about stepping back, and I’m getting all kinds of mixed signals. Does he want to meet my parents? Does he not? Are we really at that stage of our relationship? Or is he just telling me what I want to hear? Because let’s be honest, Jon’s not the easygoing type. Why’s he so easy about all of this?

“Then I find out you two were a thing, whatever that thing was, and he never said. Now I’m just… so very confused.” Tracey finally looked Brian in the eyes, not bothering to hide his misery.

Brian swore under his breath. “Look, Tracey, Jon is totally in this with you, okay? With me, I was a jerk-off buddy. You know what that’s like, right?”

Tracey shook his head. “No. Never did that.” He swallowed against pain in his throat. Maybe a nacho had scraped on its way down. It wasn’t a lump rising.

He asked a question he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to. “Do I even want to know how recent the last time was?”

Brian swirled a chip through some nacho toppings but didn’t eat it. “It was right before he left for St. Louis. I won’t bullshit you, I think you’d started at the Bureau by then, but only just. Tristan and I were defining our relationship, so Jon and I were pretty much done after that no matter what. No outside regulars, right? Tristan is my primary relationship, and he doesn’t want anyone who can possibly develop feelings.” Brian chuckled. “He didn’t even want me to stay friends with Jon when he found out we used to hook up.”

“He didn’t?” Tracey ate a nacho, mostly for something to do.

“Nope. But I finally got him to understand that for me and Jon, there never has been the risk of us catching feelings. If it had been possible, it would have happened a long time ago.”

“What makes you say that?”

Brian gave a slight shrug. “Because we were fuck buddies for a couple of years, Tracey. Nothing ever caught. It was literally a warm body to rub on. Slightly above an anonymous hookup in a dark club. I promise you, you have nothing to worry about if that’s what’s brought you here.”

Weirdly, Brian’s words did relieve some of his anxiety. Not about why Jon hadn’t told him, but they did allay his fear that he wouldn’t live up to some arbitrary comparison.

“I’m going to tell you something else.” Brian leaned forward. “This is more important.”

“Okay.”

“I have never, ever seen Jon treat anyone he’s ever dated the way he treats you. You have his full attention.”

“I do?”

“Yes. That’s a much bigger deal compared to anyone who came before you. Especially me. I mean that as his best friend, not as his former friend-with-benefits.”

Tracey nodded and stuffed another nacho in his mouth. “Okay.” The word was muffled around the food.

“Gross.”

“Asshole.”

“Not disputing that. But seriously, Tracey. If this bugs you, talk to Jon. I’m sure he’ll clear up any misunderstanding.”

Tracey drained the last of his drink. He would, but first, he had to do something else. “Thank you for being so honest, Brian. I can see why he trusts you.”

For once, Brian looked uncertain. “Do you still want to come over for that dinner with Tristan and me?”

Thinking about it for a moment, Tracey grinned. “Yeah. That’d be nice. Promise me there are no other skeletons in the closet though?”

Brian grinned back. “Not mine. I don’t even have a closet anymore. Except the actual one with my clothes.”

“Good to know.”

Tracey ordered another Uber, feeling weird about giving the driver his address instead of Jon’s. But he had something else he had to do, and he needed complete privacy.

Walking into his townhouse took a minute with all the stairs. It smelled disused, and he really wished he had the time to unpack and make it feel more homey. Then at least he could hire a cleaning service so it didn’t smell like his grandmother’s attic.

Wandering into the kitchen, he opened the fridge to find it mostly empty, with the exception of a few bottles of water and a very dried out box of leftover pizza. Ew.

Once he’d tossed the pizza box into the outside bin, he returned to the living room, bottle of water in hand. The liquor from The Square Glass buzzed pleasantly through him, and he considered searching the boxes for his home stash of alcohol.

No. Stop stalling. This won’t get better the more you put it off. And doing this drunk will not be great.

Heaving a sigh, he sat on the sofa and pulled out his phone, swiping to his favorite contacts list and staring at Mom and Dad for an inordinate length of time.

“I can’t move forward until I do this.”

The living room did not answer.

With another deep breath and slow exhale, he thumbed the contact and put the call on speaker.

Please be Dad. Please be Dad.

Maybe that was selfish, but if he could talk to his dad for a few minutes first, it would calm his nerves. He’d always been a little closer to his father than his mother. Of course, he loved both his parents beyond measure. But it was his father he connected with most. His mother fussed over him, but she also seemed to have a harder time listening to him.

“Tracey!” Edward Smith’s voice rang through the room, and Tracey grinned in spite of his nerves. “Twice in a few days. You’re positively spoiling us. How are you, son?”

“I’m good. How are you and Mom?”

“Oh, we’re hanging in there. Got the first snow of the year already, so that’s got the neighborhood kids kind of miffed about trick-or-treating with their winter coats over their costumes.” His dad chuckled. “You always hated that.”

“Yeah, until I figured out how to incorporate my coat into my costumes. Are you taking it easy on the shoveling? They call it heart attack snow for a reason.”

“Bah, this was dry snow. Almost light. But yes, kiddo. I got that snowblower a few years back, and I just had it serviced. It started right up. All I have to do now is walk with it. It’s like having a pet. Don’t worry about me.”

Tracey pictured his dad walking a snowblower up and down the sidewalk like a dog and smiled fondly. “Are you doing the Simpsons’ driveway, too?”

“Yeah, when they’ll let me. Their grandson comes over, too, so I don’t always need to. But we keep an eye out. Your mom takes hot soup over often enough under the pretense that she’s made too much so she can check on ’em, too. I don’t know how much longer they’ll keep believing she can’t plan her meals better now that you’ve moved out. I think they’re on to her.”

Taking a deep breath, Tracey shored himself up. “Speaking of Mom, is she around?”

Edward went serious. “Yeah, she’s in the kitchen. Is everything okay? Want me to get her?”

“Everything’s fine. I just need to talk to you both.”

“Sure, sure. Gimme a second to take the phone into the kitchen.”

Tracey listened to his father grunt as he extricated himself from a chair—likely his recliner in the living room, where he often sat with the TV remote on one arm rest and the cordless phone handset on the other while he watched the History Channel.

There were some rustling sounds, a beep, and then, “Okay. You’re on speaker. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine—”

“You’re not hurt again? Are you healing up okay?” Caroline Smith spoke over him, worry clear in her voice.

“Mom, I promise I’m doing okay. Physical therapy is slow but going well. They say my leg is getting a little stronger every time they see me. I’m doing my exercises every day. I promise you, I’m in good hands.” He didn’t go into detail about his other therapy appointments, or how he’d taken to talking more with Gray. His mother never asked about those anyway. His dad did, but only when it was the two of them.

“Okay. Sorry, it’s just terrible getting a phone call that your only child has been shot. I still have nightmares about that day. I worry about you, and you’re so far away. It’ll probably always take a little reassurance for me not to think you’re hurt.”

Tracey frowned. “Well, that’s actually something you should consider talking to someone about, Mom.”

“Don’t shrink me, Tracey. How many times do I have to tell you that?” He didn’t have to see her face to picture her annoyed expression.

He clenched his teeth. Ever since he’d announced he was getting a degree in psychology, any time he contradicted her or brought up the possibility of her seeking mental health support, she scolded him to quit psychoanalyzing her.

“I’ll stop shrinking you when you stop mothering me. I’m a grown man.”

“I’m your mother, and I’ll always be your mother. That’s like telling me to stop breathing.”

“The pair of you.” Edward’s interruption was exasperated but fond, like their bickering amused him. “You’re both so alike. Now, Tracey, what is it you wanted to talk to us about?”

Normally he was more magnanimous with his mother, but his nerves were jumping like they’d been touched with electricity. He decided to start with the nice bit to smooth things over.

“First, I looked at my work schedule to confirm you coming to Washington for the holidays, and Thanksgiving looks doable. There’s a chance I’ll need to travel at the last minute, but I have no trouble with you making yourselves comfortable at my house for a few days, even if I’m not here. They’ve told me trips lasting weeks, like my first one, are a rarity, so even if I do have to go somewhere, it should be short.”

He surveyed his living room and the boxes stacked up in the corner. Now he was cemented into making the place presentable. At least the invitation gave him a timeline by which to have it done. That was a start.

“Oh, that’d be wonderful.” Caroline’s pique completely disappeared. “We’ve never been to D.C. I bet it’s beautiful during the holidays. Edward, we’ll have to plan some attractions to visit. How long do you think we should stay, Tracey?”

“If you’re interested in sightseeing, why don’t you come the Friday before Thanksgiving and stay through the weekend after? I’ll still have work, but I can be around evenings and weekends. Check when the tickets are the best prices, and we can move the dates around if needed.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, son. We’re just happy to come see you.” Edward was likely waving a hand to dismiss him, even though Tracey couldn’t see it over the phone.

Here came the hard part. Tracey took a bigger breath. “While you’re here, I’d like to introduce you to someone.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end, and then Caroline drowned out any reaction Edward may have had. “You’ve met a girl? What’s her name? What’s she like? Do you have photos you can send? What kind of work does she do?”

“Caroline!” Edward cut in, laughing. “Get ahold of yourself. Let the boy answer you.”

They waited expectantly.

And now, the bomb. “Um, his name is Jon, and he’s incredibly charming and polite. I don’t have any photos of him at the moment, but I’ll take some when I can. He works… at the Bureau. He’s on my team, actually, so it’s a little bit hush-hush. But I really like him, and I would like for you to meet him when you’re here.”

The silence was so profound, Tracey glanced at his screen to see if line was still open and his parents hadn’t disconnected.

“You’re dating a man you work with?” Edmond was the first to regain his composure.

Tracey squinted uselessly, like he could suss out how Edward felt from so few words.

“Yes. He’s the team leader and he’s been great since what happened to me in St. Louis.”

“So that’s what this is.” Caroline was cold. “You’ve attached yourself to the first and only person you know in D.C. who’s helping you through a traumatic experience.”

Gooseflesh cascaded across his skin from scalp to toes. He reacted before he could think it through. “Don’t shrink me, Ma.” He couldn’t have snapped more harshly if he’d tried. “Everything about Jon is genuine, and I will not have you dismissing how we feel about each other because it’s unexpected or the timing isn’t the best.”

“Well, what do you expect me to think? You’ve never had… inclinations like this before.”

“I’ve never told you before. That doesn’t mean I’ve never been attracted to men before.” He tried to warm his tone, not wanting to fight, but this was exactly what he feared. It was difficult not to be defensive.

“What about Lorna? You loved her.” Caroline pulled no punches, either.

“I did love her. My feelings for Jon now don’t invalidate my feelings for Lorna. I’m bisexual. Why are you trying to gotcha me, Mom?”

“I’m trying to understand. What about getting married and having kids? Don’t you want that future?”

“Who says I can’t do those things?”

“Yeah, but not really. Unless you find a woman.”

“What the hell does that mean?” He no longer cared if this spiraled downward.

Edward intervened. “Okay, okay. That’s enough.” There was a rustling sound and Tracey could hear muffled speaking, as if Edward covered the phone and was speaking to Caroline so he couldn’t hear. A few seconds later, Edward was back. “Are you there?”

“Yes. What does that mean, Mom? Why ‘not really’ about marriage and kids unless I find a woman?”

“Your mom’s not on the call anymore. I’m in our bedroom.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry, son. Your mother needed a moment, and she has some thinking to do about what she’s already said.”

“Did she tell you what she meant by that?”

Edward hesitated. “She’s not thinking clearly, and I’m not going to make this worse by repeating her and hurting your feelings more. That’s not how I believe.”

Fueled by anger and adrenaline, Tracey barreled on. “How do you believe?”

“I believe you should be happy with a partner you love. No matter who that may be. My only concern here is you dating someone with supervisory authority over you at work. That has consequences you may not be prepared to face one day. It could mean your career, Tracey, and you’ve worked too hard to get where you are to sacrifice that. For anyone, man or woman.”

He let out a breath, puffing his cheeks and giving himself a moment to slow his racing thoughts. His father wasn’t voicing objections out of ignorance, only parental concern.

“I get that, Dad. And yeah, we’re aware of the implications.”

“Are you?” Edward’s gentle tone was such a contrast to Caroline’s chilly verbal stabs, it slammed into Tracey’s chest just how poorly his mother had reacted.

He shoved away thinking about her to answer his dad. “Yeah.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “In the beginning, I got so frustrated because Jon was too careful with me. But we’ve found what works for us. I promise, we’re beyond careful. As for getting caught at work, we’re professionals. We compartmentalize.”

“What about outside of work?” Edward paused.

“We’re trying to be normal. In fact, he just introduced me to his best friend, Brian, and Brian’s boyfriend specifically so we have non-work people to socialize with.”

Edward’s sigh was audible. “That’s good. Listen, Tracey, I’m going to get off the phone and have a long conversation with your mother.” He hesitated. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about the things she said.”

“She said them, not you.”

“I know, but I’m still allowed to be sorry my wife hurt my son.”

Tracey’s eyes stung. “Thank you, Dad.”

“Give me some time to talk to her, and if you can, give her some time to think about what she’s really doing here.”

Tracey remembered Tristan saying his parents needed a couple of weeks to wrap their heads around their son’s sexuality and their image of him. Maybe that was all his mother needed.

“I can try. I hope she’ll have better things to say next time.”

Edward’s reply was soft. “Me, too.”

They said their goodbyes and Tracey disconnected, feeling hollow in the wake of his fury, and beneath that, afraid. What if she never came around?

He needed Jon, but first, he pulled up a text to Brian.

Tracey

Tell Tristan he was right, and thank him for me. It was smarter to tell my parents on their own and spare Jon from hearing that.

The reply was a simple.

Brian

?? I’m here if you need a friend.

Happy fucking Halloween.