Page 162 of Stop and Seek
God, that was fucked up.
When Noah pulled him into his arms, dragging him back down against warm sheets that smelled like sex and sweat, Theodidn’t argue. He closed his eyes and let Noah kiss a line down his neck. And when Noah’s hand wrapped around his dick, he blamed morning wood. Reflex. Circumstance.
Anything but what it really was.
Work crawled by in a blur of raw, tender skin—the atrocious green turtleneckbarelyhiding the amount of hickies on his neck—and Mrs. Rosario’s compliments.
“You have a sweet smile, Theo.”
Thank you, ma’am.
“You look happy today.”
Yes, ma’am.
“Did something good happen?”
No, ma’am.
Well… maybe.
Not in the way she was expecting, though. Unless her idea of “something good” included getting laid, murder talk, and throwing his moral compass out the fucking window.
And Theodidtry to look happy when he was here. He tried, dammit. Sure, he was probably working a little too high or so hungover he couldn’t keep his eyes open most days, but he loved the library.
The bell above the door chimed, sharp and hollow, slicing clean through his spiral.
He glanced at the clock. Half-past two.
God,today couldn’t end soon enough.
“Good afternoon,” Mrs. Rosario sang.
Theo pulled open the box of decorations, instantly assaulted by the overpowering scent of cinnamon and dusty cardboard. His eyes watered. Early autumn decorations, his least favorite. Inside, a void of crumpled red tablecloths stared back at him. The cheap fabric clung to his hands, static crackling as he tugged one free. Buried beneath them were the fake flowers he hated—golds and reds and oranges, mashed together with those dollar-store berry branches that fell apart when someone bumped into them. He yanked the cloth off the center table, half-heartedly folding it before tossing the new one over.
“He’s right over there, sir,” Mrs. Rosario said.
Theo looked up, neck craning around the shelves, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
Two detectives.
What the hell were they doing here?
What did they want fromhim?
“Theodore Lambert?” one of them asked, striding closer.
“Theo.” The correction was automatic.
They weren’t locals, that much was obvious. All the cops here knew him. Hell, half of them probably still had his old senior picture tacked up in some backroom like a lost pet flyer. One too many teenage disasters and his parents’ number was permanently in everyone's phone.
The taller of the two pulled out his badge—
Michael Woodman.
Independent Contractor, Investigative Services
“Nice to meet ya, Theo,” he said. Casual. As if they were making introductions at a cookout and not about to ruin Theo’s slow-ass afternoon. He nodded to the darker-haired man beside him. “This is my partner, Glenn.”
