Page 65 of Follows with Intent

“I don’t know, Shaw. I don’t know what’s going on. Honestly, he’s probably better off without me; I’m such a mess.”

“A little less self-pity,” Shaw said, but his smile crooked to take the sting out of the words, “and a little more self-discovery. Oh! Maybe we should meditate together!”

Jadon rolled his eyes as he turned the bottle in his hands, but the words slackened the tension in the air. In some ways, this was why he and Shaw had worked so well together—all the things that people found weird (or that North rejoiced in as reasons for further bullying) had felt, for Jadon, familiar. Homey. Meditation, sage sticks, smudging, crystals. His moms had loved that stuff, and while Jadon’s life had taken him away from those things, they still had a place and a power that he recognized.

“I might—might—have started to lose my cool when Emery told him to call you and North.”

Shaw was practically quivering. “Emery told him to—”

But the horse was out of the barn now, and the words galloped out of Jadon. “And that’s such bullshit. I mean, here I am, not sleeping, not eating, staking out that goddamn dorm, and it’s like I don’t even exist. North and Shaw will take care of it. The way they always do.”

“Damn straight,” North called from the kitchen.

Shaw rolled his eyes. “Jadon.”

“What? Every case I touch, I hit a dead end, and then you and North swoop in and solve it.”

“Not every case.”

“Every single case.”

“No! You arrested those horny thieves.”

A laugh slipped out of Jadon, and he took another sip of the beer. “They were kind of hard to miss, fucking in the bed of the house they’d broken into.”

“But you still caught them! And you caught that guy who was, um, violating those goats.”

“A goatfucker,” North shouted. “Great job on that one.” And then, like he was speaking to someone else, “No, not you, you big goatfucker.”

Jadon took a longer drink.

“And,” Shaw said like someone who was worried he might be losing the argument, “every time North and I have solved a case, it’s because you’ve helped us.”

“Like fucking hell” came from the kitchen.

“Yeah, that’s definitely not true,” Jadon said.

“You’re a great detective.” Shaw scooted closer. “You’re a wonderful detective.”

The smile cut across Jadon’s mouth. It felt like the edge of a razor.

“Jay,” Shaw said softly.

“Except for Barr.”

Shaw shook his head. Tears brightened his eyes.

“You’re thinking it.” Jadon shrugged. “I’m thinking it. North is thinking it.”

“I’m thinking about how I’m trying to have a fucking phone call while you two fuckwits go down on each other verbally.”

“How do you go down on someone verbally?” Shaw asked.

“No, don’t ask—” Jadon tried.

Glugging noises came from the kitchen, and then, “Not you, fuckwit! How many times do I have to tell you?”

Shaw looked at Jadon. It was hard to separate out the mixture of what Jadon saw on his face there. Compassion, certainly, because Shaw was one of the most compassionate people Jadon knew. And pain, because the West End Slasher was one of Shaw’s scars—literally and figuratively. And something else, more complex. Shaw took Jadon’s beer and set it on the table. Then he took Jadon’s hands in his.

---