Chapter 1 Cole #18
What I have left from that house could fit in a duffel bag: one photo album, a wrench Dad gave me with my initials scratched into it, the blanket from our first date Cole had re-named our “special kissing blanket,” three mugs, some clothes, a pillow, Dad’s Bible, Mom’s jewelry box.
That’s it. The bank took the rest. The memories. No real investigation into Dad’s death, no autopsy. Nothing I could push for without money or influence.
Meanwhile, kids like Justin Clancy were arguing over which gap year spot had better Wi-Fi.
I knew none of them killed my dad, but when I stood outside that house for the last time, saluted Dad with his favorite beer before leaving Baywood and Cole, it kind of felt like it.
Those kids didn’t have a clue what it felt like to stand at the curb and realize your whole life fits in a duffel bag.
I told myself none of it mattered. But sometimes I wonder if my background did affect Cole — not consciously but deep down.
I tattooed our first date on my skin because I was so sure about us, but Cole never said anything about us being…
permanent. Of course, he always had something to fall back on.
A big family house, holiday traditions, Sunday roasts. A trust fund if he went to uni.
All I had was him.
Juniper studies me kindly and then offers me a mischievous smile.
“We just got a new section on regional crimes. Thought you might find it inspiring.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Inspiring?”
Juniper grins like she’s about to ruin someone’s reputation for sport. “Come on, I’ll give you the tour. It’s super exclusive. Members-only. Well, members and anyone who asks. Or doesn’t ask.”
She leads me down an aisle that smells faintly of old paper, tapping the spines as we pass. “This one here? In ’72, Mr. Pell — not our Steve, thank God — got arrested for goat theft. Claimed it was a ‘rescue mission’ because the goat looked lonely. The judge was not persuaded.”
I smirk. “That’s a felony where I come from.”
“In ’95, the Henderson brothers tried to rob the hardware store wearing ski masks. It was July.”
“The famous Henderson brothers,” I smile. “Not great at subtlety.”
“Or heat stroke prevention.”
Laughing, we move on to other topics, like Harold’s wife threatening to take off his bulletin board and the upcoming karaoke night at Mickey’s that apparently always ends with Steve Pell singing I’m Too Sexy.
Before I leave, I ask to use the printer. The file I requested after seeing Cole’s dad talking with Willard has finally come in.
Name : Andrew Charles Hudson
DOB : Oct 12, 1975
Education : Yale, Political Science; JD from Duke
Occupation : County Legal Counsel (formerly); semi-retired; rumored consultant
Family : Married Elaine Bennett, 1997. Two kids: Elizabeth (2000), Cole (2002)
Incident Report – 1986: Arrested for trespassing and public indecency after a frat prank. Charges dropped. File sealed.
I stare at the words too long. Andrew Hudson, butt-naked for school spirit.
I almost laugh, imagining him streaking across campus.
But the laughter dies quickly. People like Andrew Hudson always have their dirt polished.
He might be guilty of nothing more than streaking, but my gut still says he’s someone I need to talk to.
COLE
“Has it always smelled like the inside of a fryer here?” I whine to Caspian who flops down beside me with two beers and a bowl of… something. Possibly olives. Possibly nuts with fur. Mickey’s is a roulette wheel for food safety.
Caspian grins. “Come on, it’s karaoke night. Steve’s about to unleash his trademark howl and Earl’s going to think he’ll drop dead from the noise.”
“Yes, and I was about to enjoy a quiet night in,” I point out. “There’s a reason Noah has sleepovers at my parents’, and the reason is not Steve Pell violating the rules of music.”
“You spend an unhealthy amount of time on your couch,” Caspian claims. “It’s not Netflix and chill anymore, it’s Netflix as an excuse not to leave the house.”
“Exactly.”
Steve taps the mic, cutting off our bickering. “Are you ready to pray for your lives? ‘Cause I’m kicking things off with Livin’ on a Prayer.” He squints at the teleprompter. “Or Livin’ on a Pear. Left my glasses at home. They mess up my street cred.”
“Sure, ‘cos without the glasses you’re a regular goodfella,” Mickey mutters, pouring a whisky to himself.
I groan as Steve barrels into the Bon Jovi classic, loud enough to make the speakers hiss in self-defense.
The screen flashes the lyrics, but Steve’s already given up on them. Instead, he’s just goofing around: “Tommy used to work on the clocks, his onion’s on strike, he’s down on one duck…”
Caspian leans over. “I think I lost hearing in my left ear.”
“Just your left?”
“It doesn’t make a difference if we bake it or not,” Steve roars. Then he stops mid-verse. “Are they baking the onion or the pear?”
His wife, Gertrud, is crying. Whether it’s from pride, shame, or auditory trauma, I can’t tell.
The final note is so sharp Earl clutches his chest like the sound physically pierced him. “Oh Lord,” he gasps. “That’s it. My ticker’s done. My time has come.”
“Not until you’ve paid your tab!” Mickey yells from behind the bar. Steve staggers offstage, panting but beaming. “I think I nailed it!”
Without any warning, Caspian nudges me. “You’re on.”
I blink. “I didn’t — no. What did you do?”
“Signed you up.”
“For what song?”
“For something hot.” He smirks, just as Mickey pours another whisky and puts it in front of me. “Here, have some Dutch courage, it’s on the house.”
I scowl at Caspian, taking the mic from Steve just as the first notes of Sex on Fire float through the room.
My stomach drops. Not a goofy singalong song. Not safe. Not something I’d ever choose myself.
“You can do it,” Caspian says, looking so earnest I decide to believe him.
I knock back the whisky — also something I’d never choose myself — and go on the stage.
By the time I hit the chorus, the bar is silent. It’s like the whole room suddenly remembers what this song is about. My voice doesn’t even sound like mine anymore. It’s raw, scraped, alive. I’m never shy on the stage. But this time, it’s almost like I’m on fire too.
My gaze drifts toward the back, and my knees almost buckle. He’s there. Xaden. The sight slams into me harder than whisky ever could. He’s looking at me like he did that summer at Caspian’s barn party — like I was the only thing worth seeing.
Even across the room I can see the heat in his eyes.
I don’t sing the words. I give them to him. Every last one.