Chapter Fourteen

Photographs

VINCENT HAD SPENT most of the morning on the couch with James, trying to focus on reruns of random ’90s sitcoms amidst reality TV. Every hour or so, he checked to see if there had been any updates about Damien online, but nothing had come out since the press conference yesterday afternoon. Eventually, he showered, scrounged up a clean outfit, and forced himself to eat half a sandwich. A little after one, he stopped dragging his feet and searched for his car keys.

They weren’t in the metal dish by the door. Or in the pockets of the pants he had on last night. He might’ve dropped them in Sam and Tyler’s apartment, but he decided to check with James before he even allowed himself to go down that unfortunate road.

James was still on the couch, his sandwich untouched. It was hard to tell if he was engrossed in the episode or out of it again. Both options could’ve caused his zombie-like stare. Vincent opted for the former, if only to calm his nerves about leaving him alone. “Hey, have you seen my keys?”

James looked down at his lap. Little silver and gold bits stuck out from one of his clenched fists. His eyes widened—like he was just as surprised as Vincent that he had the keys.

Vincent held out his hand. “Where’d you find them?”

James drew his fist to his chest. “You shouldn’t go.”

The intensity with which he spoke took Vincent aback. “What?”

“They can’t be trusted,” he said, as if that explained everything.

Vincent searched his eyes for anger or fear. They were impenetrable. Lifeless glass marbles. He took a seat beside him. “I don’t trust them any more than you do, but—”

“They said I was dead.”

“I know, but we don’t know if they were the ones who did that,” Vincent explained. They’d been over this more times than he could count. “They could be as much in the dark as us, or they could tell us something that might help us piece together what the hell happened that night. We won’t know for sure unless you give me the keys.”

He hoped his words sounded more convincing to James than they did to himself. He’d actually been up all night worrying about it. He couldn’t wash it away with hot water or stuff it down with food. If the detectives knew that James was alive and at their apartment, then Vincent was possibly walking into a lion’s den. However, if he didn’t show up, that’d be just as damning, and if, by chance, the detectives didn’t know the truth, he didn’t want them to start looking at him in a suspicious light and discovering James.

There were a lot of “ifs” to contend with. Thankfully, James didn’t put up much of a fight. He relented and passed Vincent the keys. They felt heavier in his hand. “I’ll be back soon. Who knows, maybe they’ve suddenly become competent and found those fuckers.”

James didn’t need to say or do anything for Vincent to know he found that unlikely.

“Love you.” Vincent kissed him on the forehead and headed out.

He was in the doorway, listening to ensure that Sam and Tyler were nowhere to be found, when James appeared behind him.

“Miss me already?” Vincent said.

“I’m coming with you.”

Vincent looked back at him. Nothing about his blank expression suggested he was joking. “No, you’re not.”

His whole body was tense. “You can’t go alone. Too dangerous.”

James meant well, but there was no way in hell Vincent was going to let him tag along. “Coming with me is only going to put us both in more danger. What if they spot you in the car? No. You need to stay here. I got this one.”

James didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on something in the distance. Vincent didn’t bother checking to see if there was anything on the wall behind him; he knew only James could see it. “If I’m not back in a few hours, you are more than welcome to storm the station and rescue me, deal?”

James pulled him into a tight hug. Vincent stumbled back, wincing at the pain that pulsed in his ribs. His phone vibrated in his pocket to inform him motion was detected at the door.

“Deal?” he managed to choke out.

James let him go. “Deal.”

 

THE DRIVE TO the police station did little to placate his fears. Whatever brave face he managed to put on for James crumbled within seconds of leaving the apartment. The back seat was empty, and no cars lingered too long in the rearview mirror, but there were so many moving parts to the organism that was the City of Pittsburgh he just wanted to crawl into a dark place where he only needed to contend with himself and his own actions.

The closer he got to the police station, the harder it became to breathe. He took deep breaths, but the air never seemed to reach his lungs. The whole ordeal seemed like it was out of some absurd espionage film. Only he wasn’t an international spy who had the training and tact to get information out of two detectives who might or might not be on his side. He was just some kid. And he couldn’t imagine Ralbovsky and Tillman being infamous villains—that’d be giving them far more credit than they deserved. However, James had a point. Someone in law enforcement had lied about his death, and they were a piece in the puzzle of that night.

He reached the station early. He didn’t realize how wound up he was until he had to forcefully pull his white-knuckled hands from the steering wheel. A quick look in the rearview mirror only confirmed that fear and anxiety was written all over his sweaty face. He couldn’t go in there looking this way. He’d make Ralbovsky and Tillman suspicious before he said a word.

He checked the time on his phone. A quarter to two. He tried deep breathing until five minutes had passed, and the only discernible change was that his fingers and toes were growing numb from the lack of oxygen, which only worried him more.

In an attempt to distract himself, he focused on his phone. With James at his side, he hadn’t had much use for it. No new missed calls or text messages since the last time he checked it. His email notifications, on the other hand, had grown significantly. He didn’t even want to think about how many of them were from Dr. Cowart and his other professors at Pitt.

Instead, he went to his photos. Little squares filled his screen. Random memes, pictures of food, nature shots from his jogs. And pictures of him and James. A couple of weeks before the attack, they’d both had a little too much wine and decided to have a photoshoot. There were pictures of them laughing, kissing, and cuddling on the couch in various stages of undress.

The pictures reignited his memories of that night, which had been lost in the blur of booze. The taste of the dry wine. The warmth radiating off their connected bodies. He tried to remember what had been running through his mind then, but he came up empty-handed. All he knew was he had been happy. Maybe that’s what happiness was—when the moment you’re in is so great that you lose yourself.

He clicked on one of James. He was shirtless and downing the rest of his glass of wine. His hair jutted out in every direction like a porcupine. His lips were red from kissing Vincent all over. There were lines forming in the corners of his mouth. If Vincent had taken the photo two seconds later, James would’ve had a big silly grin on his face from trying to keep the wine in his mouth as he laughed.

Vincent hadn’t seen James smile, much less laugh, for a long time. All these photos seemed like they were from someone else’s life. Vintage stills of long-dead strangers that are sold in antique shops for a quarter.

That’s why you’re doing this, he told himself. To get back the life that had been stolen from them by their attackers. To get back James.

His eyes wandered back to the time. Almost two. He pocketed his phone and got out of the car. His fears and anxieties hadn’t left him. But there was something else there now. Anger. It slowed his breath and steadied his hands. He went into the police station. He’d do far more than face Ralbovsky and Tillman to get James back.

 

THEY WERE ACTING strange.

Vincent noticed it as soon as they collected him from the front desk. Ralbovsky greeted him with a tight smile and a firm handshake, and Tillman, black binder under one arm, thanked him for meeting with them on such short notice. They were on their best behavior, and the reason escaped him.

They led him down a series of short, tight hallways to a wooden door that Ralbovsky held open for him. Inside was a windowless room with a metal table and three chairs. Two on one side one, one on the other. An interrogation room if Vincent had ever seen one. Panic jolted his system—was this why they were playing nice?—and he must not have hidden his concern well because Tillman said, “We figured this would be free from distractions. We can certainly find another room, though, if you’d like.”

A part of him wanted to ask to go somewhere else to see if she was bluffing, but there was no reason they would be interrogating him. This was just nerves. After all, if they were involved in what had happened to him and James, they’d probably take him somewhere less conspicuous than a police station. The photo of James resurfaced in his mind, and he breathed. “This is fine.”

He took a seat, and they sat down across from him. Tillman set the binder on the table. “Thanks again for coming in. We know this isn’t easy.”

“Want some coffee? Water?” asked Ralbovsky without a hint of sarcasm.

“No, I’m okay. Thanks though.” He might not be getting interrogated, but they were up to something. This wasn’t like the last time he had talked to them in the hospital—wait, there was also that phone call. The police had issued that idiotic warning to Pitt students, insinuating that was why he and James had been targeted, and Vincent had called Tillman to let them know how he felt about it. With everything going on with James, he’d forgotten all about it. Maybe they were trying to play nice.

Makes sense. But something told him that wasn’t the whole story.

“Well, let’s dive in then.” Tillman absently raised her hand to her ear, as if to tuck any stray hairs behind it, but there weren’t any out of place. “Same as in the hospital, we compiled mugshots based on the physical descriptions you provided of men who have been involved in comparable activity and crimes. Take your time. If you have questions or if anything comes back to you, please don’t hesitate to let us know.”

Vincent waited for an “and” or an “also” that would explain the real reason they’d wanted him to come in. None came. He drew the binder close to him. Maybe they really did just want him to look through mugshots.

He opened to the first page. Four square photos of bald men stared back at him. An archaic form of the application on his phone. He studied each one. Some had tattoos of numbers—one on the right spot of his head—but none of them looked familiar. It was strange; he couldn’t remember the faces of his attackers well enough for a sketch artist to properly portray them, but he was sure that if he laid eyes on one of them, he’d know.

More pages. More faces. Young men with blond hair and angry glares. Dead, glassy-eyed men with stocky builds. What constituted comparable activities and crimes? How many of these men looking back at him would’ve killed him if they’d come across him in Schenley Park? He wasn’t sure what was worse, feeling their gaze, or knowing the detectives were watching him like hawks.

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, grateful for the momentary darkness.

“We know this can be a frustrating process,” Tillman said before he’d reopened them. “Do you want to take a break?”

“I don’t know about you, but I could use a coffee myself. Little afternoon boost. How about we take a break? Let’s take a break.” Ralbovsky stood up.

“No,” Vincent said, perhaps too sternly from the way the detectives froze. He just wanted them both to stop whatever the hell it was they were doing and tell him what was going on. The question almost left his lips, but he was afraid to know the answer. No, he needed to finish the last few pages of the binder and go. “I’m fine to keep going.”

Tillman studied him. “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

With a longing look at the door, Ralbovsky sat down. “If you insist.”

Vincent tried to focus on the photos again, but he hadn’t had the chance to give the first photo a good look when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the two exchanging looks. Focus. He didn’t want to miss one of these fuckers because of them. He scanned the page. More strangers. He flipped to the next one.

“Feel free to take your time. Really look at them,” Tillman said.

“Not a race,” Ralbovsky added with an empty laugh.

Vincent resisted the impulse to chuck the binder at them. He turned back to the previous page. Took a minute looking at each one. And, as he knew, still nothing. He didn’t know what to tell them; he didn’t recognize any of the men in the photographs.

He turned to the last page and only found more strangers in a crowd. Maybe his attackers were never meant to be in the binder. Maybe this was some test, and the photographs were all random lookalikes, and he was the one being studied. He felt like a monkey in a zoo. Any minute now, Tillman would shove a fistful of stale Cheerios in his face and tell him to eat up.

He rubbed his temples.

Tillman leaned closer to him. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.” He was ready for James to storm the station and rescue him. She was treating him like an unstable child—oh, that was it! They didn’t think he was a suspect. They thought he was made of glass. A child who required coddling. He didn’t need their faux concern or canned reassurance. He needed them to drop the act and do their job. He shut the binder.

Ralbovsky straightened up in his chair. “All done?”

“Yeah.”

“This can be a frustrating process,” Tillman chimed in, “but your boyfriend. He’d be proud of you.”

Even Ralbovsky had trouble refraining from rolling his eyes at that one. “Thanks for coming in, kid. We can lead you out of the maze.”

As much as Vincent wanted to put a continent between him and them, he didn’t want to go. Nothing had been accomplished. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Not at this time,” Tillman said.

“So, what are you going to do?” The question came out before he could stop himself.

“Our job,” answered Ralbovsky, getting to his feet.

Are they even going to mention Damien?

“We know you’re probably—” started Tillman again.

Vincent couldn’t listen to another inspirational quote. “It’s just…they’re still out there, and we’re still in danger.”

Ralbovsky paused. “We’re?”

Fuck.

He hadn’t said I’m.

He’d said we’re.

“I, ah,” Vincent said, trying to think in spite of someone having sucked all the oxygen from the room. He could feel his face growing hot. “We. People—like me. I saw on the news that Damien Wright’s body was found. Did you know he was gay?”

“We can’t discuss details of other cases,” Tillman said, her expression unreadable.

Sweat ran down his back. “Well, I guess that’s that.”

Vincent got to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair in the process.

Ralbovsky didn’t seem all that suspicious. Just annoyed. “Yep. We should be getting back to our jobs. Follow me.”

Not another word was said until they reached the entrance. Halfhearted goodbyes were exchanged with promises from Tillman to have some more photographs for him to look at soon. Vincent had to force himself not to run to his car. He rolled down his windows as soon as he got inside and breathed in the cold spring air.

He couldn’t believe how close he’d come to giving himself away. He didn’t even want to think about what could’ve happened if he hadn’t used Damien as an excuse. Sure, now the detectives were pissed that he’d tried to tell them how to do their jobs, but they needed help if they couldn’t see the clear connections between their case and what had happened to Damien. Pulling random mugshots until the end of time wasn’t going to catch these fuckers. The only thing he’d learned today was that neither of them was capable of putting a stop to what was happening.

 

WHEN VINCENT MADE it back to the apartment, he expected James to be waiting for him at the door, but he wasn’t. The apartment was dark, and the only sound was that of the TV. He found James on the couch, watching the news. Vincent plopped down beside him. “The jury is still out on whether or not we can trust them. They sure as hell aren’t going to help us though.”

“We should leave,” James said, his gaze fixed on the TV.

“What? I mean, it’s not like they’re onto us or anything. They’re just incapable.”

“A CMU student went missing.”

The weight of his words and all they implied pushed Vincent further into the couch. He checked the TV, but the anchors were discussing some political scandal. He pulled out his phone and searched for the story online.

Sure enough, freshman CMU student, Todd Caldwell, had gone missing. No one had seen or heard from him in three days. Last time he was spotted, he was going for a late-night walk. His family was offering a $5,000 reward for any information about his disappearance.

Vincent looked him up on Facebook. The profile picture was of a young wiry man with rainbow streaks across his freckled cheeks. On his “About” page, he explained that he was bisexual. A crowbar would make quick work of such a small thin build. They might not have even needed to use a gun.

Vincent set his phone down. “Fucking hell.”

“That’s why we need to get out of here,” James said. “Before we go missing.”

His head was spinning. “Where would we even go?”

“Anywhere.”

James used to talk about moving to Boston when they both graduated. He told Vincent it seemed like a good place to start over. Was that what he had in mind? Vincent tried to imagine them in a new city, but there were too many problems with that picture. “Everyone thinks you’re dead, and I don’t even have a college degree. I haven’t worked since before the attack. What will we do for money?”

“We’ll figure it out. We’ll be together. And safe.” His distant look and monotone voice had disappeared. He was with Vincent in this moment, and he was determined to protect him.

“The detectives refuse to see what’s really going on.”

James squeezed his hand. “All the more reason to leave.”

Todd’s picture was still on his phone screen. Would he be found in a few days floating in one of the three rivers? How many more people would have to die before law enforcement did something?

Vincent might have agreed to leave before he’d gone to the police station, but the detectives weren’t going to help them. It wasn’t just about him and James any longer. “People are getting killed, and more are going to die while those fuckers are still on the loose.”

“But—”

“No. We can’t just let this happen. We have to stay and try to get to the bottom of what the hell is going on. And stop these fuckers.” Tears ran down his cheeks. He knew he sounded absurd, but he didn’t care. They couldn’t hide in this apartment or run away for the rest of their lives. They had to do something. And maybe then they could return to their old lives.

James rubbed his back. “What do you want to do?”

That was the question.

Vincent dried his eyes. “Whatever we have to do to end this.”