37. Chapter 37
Evan
Something wasn’t right. There was a shift in the air around them that made the hair on the back of their neck stand up.
A sixth sense or whatever people called it, but Evan had relied on that feeling for as long as they could remember.
They’d known Cecil was bad before they’d even met, before Evan’s mom had gotten back together with him.
To a three-year-old, Cecil had been massive in size and had an energy as dark as the boogeyman Caleb would often try to scare Evan with stories about.
When they moved in with Cecil, Caleb was happy to spend more time with his dad.
Not Evan. They’d been so convinced Cecil was the real-life boogeyman that they’d barely slept for that whole first week.
As the years went by, that initial fear lessened to some degree, but that sixth sense remained absolute.
Evan had known something was wrong the night Caleb was killed.
When he hadn’t followed them, they’d circled the block before returning, only to find the street sectioned off with crime scene tape.
And tonight at O’Rourke’s, that very same feeling weighed heavily on them.
From where they sat in a window booth, Evan could see Sloane sneaking looks at them from the bar.
They were worried about her, the gambling, had even considered telling Coy about it.
But in Evan’s experience, becoming a rat never got a person far.
Being here, being with Frankie, was a chance to put their old life behind them.
But Frankie’s off today, too . Looking through Evan instead of at them when they’d crossed paths earlier. A nervous, almost sick feeling had begun in the pit of their stomach. Something was definitely not right.
“Lian, is Frankie still around?” Evan asked as the server walked past.
Lian shook her head. “Sorry, Ev.”
Evan pulled out their phone and frowned. Frankie hadn’t texted either, which was unlike her. They chewed their fry absently, unsure if they should reach out. Maybe she was busy. She’d had a lot on her mind when she’d left the apartment that morning.
A gust of air blew through the door as more patrons stepped into O’Rourke’s. Evan glanced toward the entrance, only to do a double-take. Their mouth fell open and seconds later, their cell phone clattered right into the mound of ketchup on their plate.
Cecil.
Cecil was there.
Cecil was inside the pub.
Evan ripped the sweater hood over their head so fast that their elbow knocked the glass of soda onto their plate as well.
Fuck, fuckity-fuck fuck. Evan’s whole body was shaking as they snatched the phone out of the soda and ketchup before scrambling for the napkin dispenser.
They yanked several out, patting the phone dry as best as possible.
Had Cecil seen them? Fuck, I need to warn Frankie.
Another breeze entered the pub as more people came or went, but Evan didn’t dare look.
They focused on cleaning up the mess they’d made.
Soda was everywhere, dripping onto the floor as well now.
That’s what they were doing when two sets of familiar, shiny black combat boots appeared at their table.
And as Evan slowly, cautiously, looked up, all the oxygen in their body seemed to leave them at once.
Two cops stood before them, hands perched close to their gun holsters. The shorter, heavyset one spoke first. “Evan Landry, you’re under arrest for …”
Blood rushed to Evan’s ears, pounding so loudly the cop’s voice faded away. Frankie and Sloane were standing in front of the bar, staring right at them. “No, this is a mistake. Frankie! Tell them, please.”
“Do you understand your rights as they’ve been read to you?” the other cop asked.
Evan nodded mutely. They clenched and unclenched their jaw as they were handcuffed.
They were led toward the exit, and closer to the two people who should have known them better than anyone.
Frankie had a hard, blank expression on her face as she met Evan’s gaze.
Sloane was pale, staring wide-eyed at Evan like it was the first time she’d come across them.
“Frankie, please . I didn’t do anything. Tell her, Sloane.”
“I-I can’t.” Sloane shook her head, choking out, “There’s evidence, Ev. I’m so sorry.”
Evidence? The fuck did she do? Evan’s wild gaze collided with the woman they’d called a friend for the last three months. Apparently, they didn’t know her at all because the Sloane they’d grown to like wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to screw them over.
“Frankie, I-I love you. I didn’t do this, I swear. You know me.”
“C’mon.” Evan’s arm was tugged harder as the cops pulled them further away from their Domme, their friend, their lover. Why won’t she fucking look at me?
Glee lit up Cecil’s otherwise dead blue eyes as Evan passed. Shit, I forgot about him! They tried to turn around again to warn Frankie, but the pub door was already closing in their face.
An all-consuming panic surged through Evan as they were loaded into the police cruiser. Sloane had just eliminated the only person who knew what Cecil looked like.