Page 36 of A Friend in the Glass

“Whether Lew did this or—or Del, either way, this is proof that Stonefish was a cover-up. You saw the emails; Del needed Stonefish to go away, and the colonel made it go away. And that means somebody, somewhere, knows what really happened to Went.”

Rufus was quiet as he slowly drew himself back up to his full, albeit lanky, height. He considered how to say this—because if you didn’t know the intimate ins and outs of depression, if you didn’t know that crippling, debilitating sense of hopelessness,the ideation that was far stronger than the fear of death, of the unknown, that made a bullet or a rooftop feel like the only answer, the only way out, the truth could sound… cruel. But Rufus decided, even if it hurt beyond measure to hear, Sam would know it came from a place of real understanding.

“Sometimes… people just want to die. Sometimes life eats at you until you’ve had enough—until you can’t do it anymore. Sometimes, there’s no conspiracy.”

Sam nodded. “But at least I’d know.”

Chapter Nineteen

Sleep came slowly for Sam, and when he dreamed, it was in broken images—the Savoy, the Javits, the dark tunnel of Manhattan. Through all the dreams, an undertow dragged on him, and in the dream, he knew it was like the gravity that had made Evangeline Ridgeway’s fall true as a plumb line. When he woke, the apartment was gray with the morning, and the thing pulling on him was Rufus, who had turned until the bedding was caught around him, winching Sam along with it.

He showered. A fresh tee. Clean jeans. His ruck, when he was done, was ready to go again.

Go where, he thought.

The thing pulling on him. Like gravity.

He read the news on his phone as Rufus stirred, peed, leaned in the doorway, scratching under one arm. It was time to be an adult about the night before, about his… reaction.

But then he saw the next headline and said, “Rufus.”

SAVOY SLAYING it said, with all theNew York Post’s usual class. And then, in case you didn’t get it, HOTEL HOMICIDE was printed immediately underneath.

“Police have not released the victim’s identity,” Sam read as he angled the phone for Rufus to see, “but sources close to the investigation say that the victim was a government employee, possibly associated with the U.S. military. Police have yet to comment on the status of the investigation.”

“Sonofabitch,” Rufus grumbled. He hastily dug through his clothes on the floor, stopping to smell a few shirts. “ThePostmoves fast.” He yanked a black thermal over his head. “At least we weren’t mentioned.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll see whoever came out of that room.”

“Like Del?” Rufus tugged on black skinny jeans, buttoned them, and added, “I think we should find him, get it straight from the horse’s mouth, and then toss him to the wolves before Erik decides his CI is too hot to keep on payroll. That article didn’t say anything about a suspect yet, did it?” He went digging for a t-shirt.

“Not yet,” Sam said sourly. “Any ideas onhowto track down Del? Somebody with that much money is probably hiding behind an army of lawyers, and I doubt he gave the Savoy his forwarding address.”

Rufus had retrieved a t-shirt that said CRIME PAYS in bold letters. “I think better when I’ve been fed, you know.”

There was something to be said for consistency. In spite of himself, Sam smiled. “BlueMoon?”

Rufus met Sam’s look with a toothy grin of his own. “Baby, it’s like you love me.”

As far as Sam was concerned, there wasn’t a lot to like about New York. The city was too loud, too busy, and simply toomuch. Like the girl Sam had seen on one of his rare subway rides—she’d been drooping, lurching every time the train moved, andall of a sudden, she’d puffed out her cheeks like a blowfish and stayed that way the rest of the ride. (It had been the A, of course.) At the next stop, she’d stumbled off so she could spit out approximately a gallon of vomit in the closest trash can. There was the guy in the park next to Rufus’s building who dressed up like a rat and climbed around on the benches. One time, they’d been waiting in line in a deli, and these two old ladies had been going at each other, screaming louder and louder until one of them stabbed the other with a plastic fork. And then, fuck of all fucks, they’d both burst out laughing.

So, that was New York, for Sam.

But the city did have one thing: it had BlueMoon.

And, of course, it had Rufus.

The diner wasn’t much to look at. The glass door was covered in stickers, lots of them for bands Sam had never heard of, although he guessed Rufus probably had. Inside, the aesthetic was vintage American, meaning: old as shit, but well kept. It smelled like good coffee and a seasoned griddle, and the menus had that film on them that made them feel perpetually greasy, and the short-order cook rang a bell every time a plate was up. But somehow, it never felt like too much. That might have been because of the pancakes.

They took their usual spot, and it wasn’t until Sam was in the booth that he realized he’d thought of it astheirspot. He wasn’t sure when it had stopped beingRufus’sspot.

“On my way, Freckles,” Maddie called from the register.

Sure enough, she came over with coffees and menus—not that they needed the menus at this point. They ordered: the BlueMoon’s version of a Grand Slam for Sam, and for Rufus, pancakes. Some days, Maddie lingered to chat, but today thearrival of more customers meant she left them with nothing but a quick pat on the shoulder for each man.

“I was thinking…” Sam said. “What’s to say Del hasn’t skipped town already?”

“Wouldn’t it look suspicious?” Rufus tore open a sugar packet and poured the contents into his palm. “Disappearing during the middle of that Big Dick Energy convention would have to look weird to someone, I’d think.”

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