Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
THORNE
Pacing around my living room, I regret that I don’t have a better space to work in. I don’t want to take this to the office right now. It’s too far of a drive, especially because I still haven’t found what I’m looking for, and I don’t really want to have to keep going back and forth.
The place Matias has isn’t half-bad. It’s small, but it works. There’s a strong internet connection, and it really is in the middle of nowhere, so I don’t have to worry about nosy neighbors asking me who I am and how long I’m staying.
I can be left alone to my conspiracy theories and wild, unhinged fantasies about the fact that I just got a hand job from a possible killer.
Fuck. I feel like one of those TV detectives with my hair all fucked-up and a cup of coffee in one hand, muttering bullshit to myself as I try to connect the dots while wrestling with my own morality.
Once I get one of those giant pinboards with red yarn and old newspaper photos, it’s fucking over for me.
For now, I have my larger monitor set up in what was supposed to be a dining room and a slideshow of all the photos I took out at Leaf’s property. There’s something about that place that I can’t shake. Almost like déjà vu.
Most of my cases before this have been in bigger cities, and the last time I was out here was to investigate the ASL professor’s stalker. I’m pretty sure Leaf had nothing to do with Denver’s case back then, so I don’t know why it’s bothering me.
Leaf isn’t exactly a cyber tech genius. I’d watched his account online as he did his best trying to figure out how to make a post to start with.
He’d started with searching for keywords like explosives and TNT. Then he commented on a few old posts, which got no answer. Finally, he messaged one of the admins on how to put up a post and protect his IP address.
The admin did not give him the correct information.
I haven’t gotten his search history yet, but I have a feeling when I do, it’s going to look like the Loser’s Guide to Murder or something like that.
I do have to hand it to him though, “groundhog” is a very random but clever code word for the man he maybe, possibly, probably doesn’t have locked away somewhere on his property.
I glance at the pictures on my screen once more, but I can’t see anything suspicious from those alone. But in the past, I’d found places that had underground hidey-holes in the trunks of trees before, so it’s not out of line to think I’ve missed something subtle.
Though with Leaf, subtle doesn’t seem to be his strong suit. He wasn’t wrong about his personality and the chaos he seems to bring to everything he does.
And now that I have the proper spelling of his name, all I have to do is wait for the email on his background check, which should be coming in…
Two flashing lights on my monitor is the indication that the email has arrived. I walk over and sit down, reaching up to pull my hearing aids out of my ears. They’re not working as well as they have before. My audiologist warned me I was probably going to need an upgrade sooner rather than later.
I’m one of the lucky ones, of course. My benefits actually cover my devices, so I’m not going to have to pay thousands of dollars I don’t have to get better ones. But they’re a stopgap anyway.
The prognosis I’ve been given by the ENT is that, in this case, I’m one of the unlucky ones. My Ménière’s disease is severe, and my hearing loss will end up profound. The dizzy spells from it are bad enough, but waking up every day, losing bits and pieces of sound around me, is starting to feel…
There aren’t really words for it. Not yet. The grief hasn’t fully hit me. I figure it will when I lose something that I love—like music or thunder. But I’m a master at dealing with shit after the fact. I like to sweep things under the rug until I’m face-first in the shit.
Then I deal with it.
For now, it’s easy to compartmentalize.
I set my hearing aids on the desk and enjoy the way the fog seems to settle inside my ears after taking them out. There’s pressure, then relief. I rub at my ear with one hand as I use the other to double-click the email.
Squinting, it takes me a second to remember I’m not wearing my readers. I have a stack of these glasses I picked up from a CVS clearance sale, and the black ones are closest to my hand, so I shove them on my face.
The text becomes clear, and I sit back as I scroll.
Leaf Holloway. He’s thirty-two, grew up in the Bay Area, got a college degree in Deaf Studies, then became certified in ASL interpreting, which makes total sense.
His first job was at the Fremont School for the Deaf until he moved to mainstream classroom interpreting and then eventually spent all his time working for interpreting agencies.
I rub at my temples, feeling a camaraderie with Leaf.
Maybe that’s why I let him crawl onto my lap and wrap his hand around my dick.
Because Deaf culture, hearing loss, and ASL is something that connects us.
It’s something not many people understand.
And while I’m pretty new to the Deaf community, I’ve learned a lot from Denver.
Shit, that guy went from a victim of cyberstalking to my ASL teacher to now someone I’d like to consider a friend. He teaches at the local community college, and even if Leaf isn’t working as an active interpreter now, there’s a damn good chance Denver knows him.
My mind shifts to character witnesses, and I wonder if Denver would be one. But at the same time, I also need to tread carefully because I am not supposed to be in the field. I don’t think Denver would rat me out, but I can’t be too careful.
I sigh and rub my fingers around my mouth. God, my lips are dry, and my fingers still smell a little like Leaf’s cum, even after I washed them. That’s jerk-off material for later.
I give them another good sniff before setting my hand down because I’m not a teenage boy, god damn it. Even if I feel like one right now.
I turn my attention back to the records on the screen. Leaf’s got a handful of parking tickets from when he was an early driver and one drunk and disorderly that was thrown out when the cop admitted to not understanding that Leaf was interpreting for his Deaf friends, not drunk.
Not something that surprises me, unfortunately.
The rest of his report makes him look like every other average person I’ve ever met.
His credit is pretty shitty, and his debt is high, but he’s also just come into an inheritance.
That’s…interesting. And suspicious. He inherited both liquid and non-liquid assets—mostly property, it seems, and a few grand in declared cash—from a deceased aunt.
The aunt was the one who used to own that property.
I make a note of her name to look into that too. Her death is currently listed as natural causes, but that can be faked.
Though…by Leaf? That’s a stretch. Unless he’s an amazing actor. But like I said, I’ve spent my entire career learning how to see through lies, and he doesn’t have that kind of murder in him.
Biting my lip, I stare at the screen until all the words blur together.
I have no idea what to make of all this.
Or him. He’s so different from anyone I’ve ever met before.
His chaos is weirdly charming, the way he talks to himself is cute, and his big eyes and pouty lips are addicting.
It might be weird to other people, but to me, it’s so fucking attractive.
And, I can’t lie, he fucks like a god. Or, well, he probably does because that hand job straight up changed my world. I feel my dick get hard again and stare down at it. I haven’t had a refractory rate like that in years. Nothing has excited me as much as this possible criminal.
I palm myself, then sit back, and my eyes fix on the little thumbnail image of Leaf’s face. It looks like an employee ID. But it’s definitely him, with his deep-set eyes and sharp eyebrows, those fucking lips. And there it is, a freckle under his left eye.
For a moment, I thought I’d imagined that.
I wish I’d gotten to do more than touch him. The kiss he planted on me was so fast I didn’t even get a proper taste.
I palm my dick a little harder, remembering his half-naked body on mine, those nipples, the hairless chest. He’s smaller than most men my age, but I liked it. He fit perfectly against me, his narrow waist, his lean musculature.
Fuck it.
I pull my cock out and stroke, my head falling back against the computer chair, lolling to the side to keep looking at Leaf.
I let out a soft moan as my wrist twists against the tip of my dick, swiping up the precum that’s beaded there.
I still have him on my hand, I think as I stroke faster.
That, coupled with the memory of the way he sounded as he came, has my breath picking up.
My hips shift up, my mouth parted in a moan.
My orgasm comes quickly, barreling down my spine and through my balls. I feel them tighten and then gasp as cum spills from the tip. I don’t stop stroking until the orgasm fades, my body jerking from the sensation.
And then I sit there, sprawled out in my computer chair, staring at Leaf’s picture on the screen, and sigh.
I am so going down with this ship.
Leaf’s little farmhouse looks entirely different in the daylight.
It’s almost picturesque with the way it sits on top of a hill.
There’s not enough of a slope for a vineyard, but it is perfect for the apple orchard behind the house.
The entire place is one of those cute little structures more prevalent on the East Coast with the wraparound front porch and sloped roof.
In the daylight, I can see it’s in desperate need of paint, and I notice farm equipment in the field beyond that nature’s started taking over.
Some of it is covered in vines, and all of it is rusted.
If someone were to snap a picture of this, I bet one of those images would probably win a prize in a photo contest.