Chapter 2
Ted
We’d only been seeing each other for a couple of months when Josh dropped a bombshell.
“You might get wind of something about me that’s not good. But I wanted you to hear it from me first.” He paused and stared down at the grass. From the rigid way he held himself, I already surmised this wouldn’t be good news.
What? Don’t tell me.
You’re married.
You have a boyfriend.
You have an “issue” with coke, meth, alcohol.
I’ve heard it all before. Yet, you seemed so perfect. Curse my wretched luck. Here we go again.
I sometimes wondered if I’d ever find love. All these tens of thousands of gay men in Chicago, yet I seemed cursed with always picking the wrong one.
It was the kind of July day we Chicagoans live for—low humidity, brilliant sunshine, and nary a cloud in the sky.
There was a slight breeze, warm. We’d headed over to Kathy Osterman Beach, better known as ‘the gay beach,’ and I’d been grateful we’d both decided to play hooky from our jobs that weekday.
At least I was thankful until the next words came haltingly out of his mouth, “They say I murdered my first lover.”
At first, I laughed. I mean, I roared. He might as well have said he used to be a woman. Or a Republican, which would have been worse than anything, and grounds for kicking him to the curb.
This is a joke, right?
I’d known Joshua Kade for only a short time, at least in the grand scheme of things, but his being capable of murder was something that was so far-fetched that, well, it sounded insane, beyond implausible.
This was a guy who caught spiders in overturned juice glasses and took them outside, a man who would swerve to the side of the road if he spotted a stray dog, someone who would rather serve the homeless at a soup kitchen on Thanksgiving or Christmas, rather than celebrate the holiday with friends and family.
His kindness was one of the reasons I was rapidly falling in love with him.
Oh, who am I kidding? I was already in love.
But was I in love with a murderer?
I laughed again and the movie title I Married an Axe Murderer popped into my head, which made me even more giddy. “C’mon, Josh. What next? You had something to do with Jimmy Hoffa’s disappearance?”
Josh took my hand. “Ted, Ted, listen, I’m serious.” He set down the bag of barbeque chips we were sharing in an impromptu junk-food picnic on the grass bordering the beach.
I slapped at an ant crawling up my leg.
“That’s just not possible.” In spite of him claiming to be serious, I pushed this shocking admission away, like some dead and rotting thing. I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to hear any more. But who would joke about such a thing?
I stared out at the beach, populated mainly by gay men in speedos and board shorts on bright-colored towels.
There was the fishy tang on Lake Michigan and weed smoke in the air.
My gaze moved farther out to the aquamarine, almost tropical, waters of the lake.
The waves splashed against the beach, gathering power farther out, their white tips a sharp counterpoint to the blue.
I examined the breakwater, with its fishermen and rainbow-colored paint job.
We’d walked along the breakwater when we’d first arrived, daring each other to jump off the end of it.
Although the water looked inviting, we knew its temperature hovered around a gonad-shrinking sixty or so degrees.
These simple things took on an aspect of the surreal in light of my new boyfriend’s admission.
Can we just start over? Pretend you never made your little confession, or whatever you want to call it?
Can we make plans for the weekend? There’s that new Japanese place in Evanston I’ve been dying to try.
“Ted, listen. It is possible, because it happened.” Josh wasn’t looking at me.
He too stared out at the water and the beach, but somehow I doubted he saw the same things as I did.
His features were contorted, troubled, as though a cloud had offered its shade to only him.
He sighed. “It was a decade ago and, honestly, I thought I’d never hear another thing about it, but there’s this podcast, some cold-case crime thing, that’s bringing it all back up.
” He shrugged. “The podcast is national, on all the usual streaming apps—Apple, Spotify, and so on. I wanted you to hear about it from me before anyone else.”
“This is for real? Really? Really?” A rising sense of panic grew within me.
Sure, I didn’t believe for a minute Josh was capable of murder, but here was this shocking admission.
What do I do with it? Obviously, he’d been cleared all those years ago—or else we wouldn’t be sitting here together.
But I was having a lot of trouble wrapping my head around the notion that anyone had even thought to accuse this sweet, gentle man of something as wicked as murder. “Tell me.”
“Can we go back to my place?” Josh took another look at the water, the beach, the perfect day. “It’s quieter.”
I also took another look at the idyllic scene before us. I tore my gaze away, despite my longing to enjoy it without the burden of what my new boyfriend has just revealed.
I thought of asking, “Why? So you can murder me in private?” But the joke fell dead before it reached my lips. The bark of laughter that slipped out was not from mirth, but from near hysteria.
In agreement, I rose. Although the sun still shone and the breeze was a caress, the day had shifted, almost as if a bank of dark clouds have moved in to block out the sun and to turn Lake Michigan’s water to gray. My chill, though, came from inside.
Josh lived just a few blocks from the beach on Kenmore Avenue, just south of the main campus of Loyola University.
We walked in silence for several blocks and when we came to his building, an older red brick high rise, he turned to me and gave me a sad smile.
“I’m sorry to bring you down on this great day.
But really, you need to know and the story should come from me. ”
I gulped, my mouth suddenly dry. I followed him inside and we stayed mute as we traversed the lobby and headed up to the fourteenth floor in the rattling elevator.
Inside, Josh’s place seemed normal. Normal for him meant messy, but clean.
Cluttered but dust- and grime-free. Scattered across the coffee table were several suspense novels, his iPad, and a couple issues of the New Yorker.
There was a hoodie and baseball cap on the recliner next to the couch.
The three big windows in the living room looked out on blue skies and, if I moved close, Lake Michigan a couple blocks to the east.
It all seemed run-of-the-mill, boring even.
There wasn’t much personality. Anyone could have lived there.
No family or friend pictures anywhere. The kind of furniture people bought in suites that maybe included table lamps and an oil painting of a landscape for above the couch.
And yet my nerves buzzed as though there were hot needles embedded beneath my skin.
Josh had gone into the bathroom and, when he came back out, I imagined he’d be brandishing a butcher knife a la Norman Bates in Psycho. There’d be shrieking violins and I wouldn’t have time to scream. “I have to stop this,” I said when I saw all he had in his hands was a towel to dry them.
“Stop what?”
“Imagining you as a murderer.” I smiled to reassure him. I told him about the Psycho comparison.
He didn’t laugh.
He sat down beside me on the couch. He took a breath and waited a beat. He licked his lips. “There’s this podcast I mentioned.”
“Meat Locker?” I cocked my head. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Well, you might. Bailey Anderson, the host, might even try to get in touch with you.”
“What? Why?”
He held up a hand. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves here. Let me start at the beginning.” He drew in and then blew out a big breath. “Remember I told you I had a boyfriend a long time ago who died?”
I nodded, remembering. On our second date, over lunch at Ann Sather, we’d shared our dating and relationship histories.
I’d only had one serious boyfriend and that partnership had lasted six years, even though we never crossed into living together.
Jeff was sweet, but dumb as a rock. If he hadn’t been so cute and so much fun, we’d never gotten past the first date.
But what can I say? Maybe I’m shallow and a pretty face, nice pecs, and a big dick holds my fascination much longer than a sharp intellect.
Proof was in the pudding, I guess. We’d had so much fun, I’d never had a regret over the mismatched union.
I think I always knew our relationship would have a short shelf-life.
But this wasn’t about me. “You mean Randy?” I seemed to remember he’d mentioned a boyfriend he’d had about ten years ago.
Since then, according to Josh, there’d been a little dating here and there, a lot of hooking up, but no one serious had come along.
He’d said he was happy being carefree and single.
Until me.
In our original talk over Swedish meatballs, egg noodles, and limpa bread, Josh had told me the guy had died in a car accident on Lake Shore Drive, hit by a taxi cutting across three lanes to exit at Lawrence Avenue.
I’d believed him. Shit like that wasn’t rare.
Plus, he’d embroidered the wreck with such detail.
Why would he lie?
“Yeah. Not Randy, though. Reggie. Reggie Baker.” He eyed me.
“I’m sorry, Ted, but I lied. He didn’t die in a car crash.
He was murdered. Stabbed to death. In an alley in Boystown.
” He stopped to straighten some magazines and stack the books on the coffee table.
“I was with him.” Josh’s green eyes became glassy with unshed tears.
“At least until I wasn’t, until I left him there for some monster to come along and slash him. ”