Chapter 10
They drove to the Harmons parking lot and sat in the glare of a security light. An ache was packed at the back of Tean’s head, and when he blinked, his eyelids felt gummy.
Jem scrolled and tapped on his phone, but after a moment, he said, “So, this guy was a real piece of shit.”
“Yes.”
“If there were two, there might be more.”
Tean nodded.
“And that means more suspects. More people who might have wanted to hurt this asshole.”
Tean nodded again.
“That helps, right?”
“I suppose. I mean, it’s hard to be happy about the fact that Brennon turned out to be a serial child molester and predator.”
“But we know more than we did. We know he was probably killed Sunday night.”
“Probably.”
“I said probably,” Jem said with a flash of a smile. “And we know the police are still looking for his phone and car, which is good for us because—well, fuck me. Does this kid not exist?”
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to find Kazen Shumway.” Jem made a noise of disgust and tapped furiously. Under his breath, he said, “Okay, let’s do this again. K, A, Y, Z—”
Tean leaned to look at the phone. “Try it without the Y.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? There are, like, twenty Kaydens and Caymans and Kaylynns in a five-block radius around us.”
In spite of himself, Tean smiled. “Well, there aren’t any hard rules about spelling names. People can do whatever they want. In Utah, they usually do.”
“Fuck that,” Jem grumbled as he erased the Y. “That’s so unfair.”
In sympathy, Tean scratched the back of Jem’s neck while Jem finished typing in the boy’s name. Jem rolled his head a few times, leaning into Tean’s touch, and then said, “There you are. Hey! Don’t stop.”
Tean, who had bent to see the phone and forgotten his primary responsibility, went back to scratching Jem’s neck as he studied the public white page listing for Kazen Shumway.
It listed a South Jordan address not far from Brennon Lee’s house, listed his age as twenties, and provided several names he might be related to, including one at the same address: Erica Shumway—her age was listed as forties.
“Mom and son?” Jem said, scrunching up his shoulders when Tean ran his nails over a particularly sensitive spot.
“No dad,” Tean noted.
“Kazen’s a troubled boy, needs a strong male role model, exact same bullshit. Looks like Brennon had an MO.”
Tean shook his head.
“Want to try to talk to him?” Jem said.
“I think we should,” Tean said slowly. “Since we don’t seem to have any other leads right now.”
The Shumway house was another brick rambler, about the same age as Ammon’s, but with a patchy yard gone to weeds and dirt.
Most of the house crouched in shadow, but a single, daylight-white bulb on the porch cast a glare across the front to reveal a sagging storm door, disintegrating mortar, and paint peeling from the window frames.
Behind old single-pane windows hung moon-and-star curtains that had faded from what had probably been navy to a blue so washed out it was almost gray.
The curtains were closed, but a hint of warmer light unfurled around the edges.
As Tean stepped up onto the concrete stoop that served as a porch, he realized Jem had stopped on the walk and was staring up the street.
In answer to the unspoken question, Jem murmured, “I thought someone was following us.” But after a moment, when the end of the street stayed dark, he said, “Never mind.”
Tean knocked.
The door opened to reveal a young man wearing nothing but a tiny pair of shorts that rode low enough on his hips to expose the top of a jockstrap, bright red against smooth, pale skin.
He was shorter than Tean and leanly muscled, arms and legs toned but not overly developed, chest tight, abs prominent.
His dark hair hung in curtains, and he was smiling.
“Hey.” He held the door open with one arm and angled his body in invitation. “Come in.”
Tean shot a look back at the street, but Jem was nowhere in sight.
“Uh,” the young man said with obvious impatience.
Without any better ideas, Tean found himself stepping forward.
The narrow opening between the doorjamb and the young man forced Tean to turn sideways to avoid making accidental contact.
Somewhere farther back in the house, music was playing—Tean didn’t recognize it, but it sounded frantic, synthesized, with a rhythmic pulse and repeating vocals.
He got a glimpse of the front room—a corduroy sofa, a paisley recliner, glass-topped coffee and end tables, a floor lamp with a hand-painted shade featuring an eagle in flight—and then a cloud of scent rolled over him: cinnamon, and then something else, dark, rich, like flowers and leather and warm skin.
“I’m—” he began as he turned.
The young man was already there, stepping into his space, hands running down Tean’s chest. When he reached Tean’s khakis, he began tugging loose the DWR shirt.
“You’re way cuter than your picture,” he said as he slid one hand up under the shirt.
“And you’re fast, too. I just finished getting ready. ”
Tean’s brain tried to do several things at once: explain that there’d been a mistake, move backward, grab the young man’s wrist. The combination overloaded him, and instead, he found himself rooted to the floor, distantly aware that he was saying, “Um, um, um—”
The young man’s free hand began tugging on his belt.
“No,” Tean finally said. He lurched backward, hit the sofa, tried to slide around it, and banged the back of his knee on the corner of the end table. “Ow! Wait, hold on, stop!”
The boy stared at him, hands still in the air. “Oh my God, are you okay?”
A rap at the storm door made them both turn.
Eyebrows raised, Jem leaned against the door.
“No,” Tean said. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“I don’t even know what it looks like,” Jem said through the glass.
“Well, it’s not that,” Tean said.
“Actually, it looks like you two were about to boink, and then your trick knee gave out.” To the boy, Jem added, “Mind if I come inside?”
“Uh, yeah, I mind,” the boy said. “What the hell are you doing? Hey, I said—”
But Jem was already opening the door, and he stepped inside with an apologetic smile.
“Bruh, get out,” the boy said. “Both of you! I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but if you don’t get out, I’m calling the cops.”
“We’re not here to fuck you,” Jem said. “Well, at least, I’m not.” He gave Tean a pointed look.
“I’m not either! I just—he—” Tean tried to come up with something better—and caught himself tucking his shirt back in—but all he could manage was “I didn’t do anything.”
“I leave you alone for five minutes.”
“Jem!”
“What the fuck is going on?” the boy asked.
“Are you Kazen, no Y, Shumway?” Jem asked.
The boy frowned. “There’s a Y in Shumway.”
“No, not—” Jem blew out a breath. “Never mind. Are you Kazen?”
“Yeah.” A moment later, he seemed to remember to ask, “Who are you?”
“Jem. And this is my boyfriend, Tean.”
Kazen’s face filled with outrage. “You told me he was okay with it!”
“I didn’t tell you anything,” Tean snapped. He adjusted his glasses and then, unable to stop himself, ran his hands through his hair. “And this is not sex shaming or being sex negative or anything against sex, but you really need to be more careful about letting strange men in your home.”
“It’s a little sex negative,” Jem said.
“For real,” Kazen said.
“And a little judgmental.”
“I don’t understand what’s happening here,” Tean said. “I’m the victim!”
“Also,” Jem said, “we’re here to talk to you about Brennon Lee.”
Shock ran across Kazen’s face like clear water before freezing into a mask.
“Someone killed him,” Jem said. Kazen’s expression didn’t change. “But you already knew that.”
“Well, yeah. Everybody knows. But I don’t know why you want to talk to me—”
“Nah,” Jem said. “You can save that part. His wife already told us about you two.”
For a moment, the set of Kazen’s face suggested absolute refusal. Then he shook his head and muttered, “Fuck.”
“Want to tell us about it?”
A flush started in the hollow of Kazen’s throat and moved rapidly up.
“Or,” Jem said, “we can make this official.”
Kazen went perfectly still. A second ticked past. And then another. Tean could practically hear the calculations. Then he ducked his head. “Uh, can you, like, give me a minute? I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Nice try,” Jem said.
“No, like—I was getting ready for this guy.” His hand drifted behind him, as though reaching for something, and he shifted his weight. “Come on, are you going to make me say it?”
“Go take your plug out or whatever,” Jem said. “And get on Grindr or Prowler or whatever and cancel your hookup. But if you try to run, I’m going to catch you, and I won’t be so nice next time.”
Kazen gave a nervous laugh and padded down the hall. A moment later, a door shut, and there was a grating sound Tean couldn’t place. Then water began to run.
“Weed?” Jem said. “Or pills?”
“What?”
“His stash. Or whatever he’s freaking out about.”
“Uh, I don’t know. I guess weed. I hope so, anyway.”
“Do you know what’s going to be awkward?” Jem said.
“This. Everything about this.”
“This isn’t awkward. I thought it was kind of cute when he thought you were his hung, sexy daddy.”
“It wasn’t cute.”
“It was sweet, though.”
“It wasn’t sweet at all.”
“At the time, I was feeling kind of murder-y about it, but you have to admit it’s kind of hot how jealous I got.”
“No, it wasn’t. You were supposed to help me!”
“I am helping you, babe.” And without missing a beat: “It’s going to be super awkward if his real booty call shows up, though. Better get ready to explain yourself, or you’re going to have one horny daddy trying to rip your glasses off.”