Page 59 of His Favorite Color is Blood
An uneasiness settled in Grim’s stomach. “Did he say where he works?”
“He told me he works from home.” Misha looked up at Grim and rang the doorbell a few more times.
“It’s kind of late,” said Grim, looking at his watch. It was almost eight pm. When his gaze rolled toward the road, he noticed the mailbox and walked toward it in quick strides. He didn’t even have to open it to see how full it was, and his stomach twisted as he pulled back the flap and emptied the box of a whole stack of letters.
Misha’s face went pale, and he wouldn’t say a word. He entwined his fingers in his lap and cracked his knuckles.
Grim looked through the post, but hope didn’t die in him until he saw a notice dated three weeks back.
“Fuck,” he muttered, suddenly feeling like a shell. He didn’t want to look at Misha, but the ragged breath close by reminded him that Misha was there, waiting for answers Grim couldn’t provide.
“Look ... maybe he’s on vacation,” said Grim, even though he didn’t really believe that. This was a fucking nightmare. Misha would never forgive himself if those fuckers took someone because of him.
“He didn’t have enough money to go anywhere. This trip to meet me was supposed to be his first vacation in three years.” Misha’s voice got a higher pitch, and Grim brought himself to look at him.
“Do you have his phone number? E-mail?”
He was feeling sick from just thinking about this. And while he couldn’t blame Misha for wanting to save himself, he wouldn’t lie and say he didn’t care about what possibly had happened to Dennis. Another boy would get mutilated. The same way Misha had and that girl from the Louisiana chapter.
Misha dictated both the phone number and the e-mail to Grim. He really had a freakishly good memory. Grim pushed the mail back where he found it and listened to the beeping in his cell phone as his stomach turned with anger. He was no knight in shining armor, but cutting people’s limbs off made him have visceral reactions, which he couldn’t stop.
“He’ll die,” Misha whispered. “And I pulled him in.”
Grim swore and rubbed his forehead, finally dropping the call. Misha was right. No one would be picking it up. He folded his arms and looked at Misha, unsure what to say. It was over. Zero, and the boy for that matter, could be anywhere.
“He will cut him up …” Misha’s voice was high-pitched and dull as he ran his fingers over the door.
Grim looked down at him, knowing he needed to sober up and help Misha forget. Those things happened sometimes. They came here too late. Just like he had been too late to save Misha. To save Coy. “You don’t know that. Maybe they need him for something else.”
“Yeah, like rape,” Misha hissed and clenched his fists, so small in the wheelchair despite his well-defined arms.
Grim sucked in both his lips and kicked a darker piece of gravel against the wall. “There’s nothing we can do now. Maybe the police will raid them eventually,” he said, even though it was all wishful thinking.
Misha licked his lips, and the silence extended into what felt like eternity. “Can you break into this house?” he asked in the end.
Grim frowned and looked back at the door. “You think he’s in there?”
“No, but maybe I can look at his computer and figure something out.”
Grim’s arms relaxed, and it was as if adrenaline fueled his bloodstream again. “Right, you’re a hacker,” he said and quickly approached the door, pulling out his own version of the Swiss Army knife. Breaking in didn’t even take a minute. Houses in the countryside tended to be easy prey with their simple locks and all too much trust put in strangers.
“A lot of what I know should still be valid. I remember how I hacked into their system, I just … hoped I wouldn’t have to use that knowledge.”
Grim looked back at Misha, a bit conflicted about all this, knowing Misha would be reliving this day over and over. But on the other hand, if they didn’t try, Misha would never forgive himself. Or him for that matter. Grim knew a thing or two about regret, and he’d do a lot to save Misha the pain.
He pushed open the door and winced at the stale scent of dust and rotten produce. This wasn’t the house of someone who went on vacation. A notebook and some pieces of paper were scattered over the floor, and as they moved in farther, a whole array of pens littered the carpet, next to a fallen cup.
“Shit,” muttered Grim and stopped Misha before he could wheel inside. “No fingerprints.”
Misha nodded and reached back to his bag to pull out the gloves Grim had bought him for the visit at Pat-the-homophobe’s house. “Did you leave fingerprints on the letters?” Misha asked and wheeled down the corridor.
Grim massaged his nose. “Probably, but those came after Dennis went missing,” he said, following Misha inside and donning his gloves as well.
The stench of food came from the large room on the left side, and the landscape inside the house screamed of struggle with chairs fallen to the wooden floor and large spots of dried fluid on the panels. There was a plate of food on the coffee table, now covered by grey and white fuzz.
“I found his computer,” Misha said from afar, and selfishly, a part of Grim wished they hadn’t come here to check on Dennis. Misha wouldn’t have to face the horror of what he’d been through yet again. It was Grim’s fault. He’d been the one to plant this idea in Misha’s head, and now they would both be dealing with the consequences. He walked past an open bedroom with a tidily made double bed and went straight into the open doorway of what looked like a home office. He stopped in his tracks when he spotted a wheelchair in the corner. Must have been Dennis’s.
Misha glanced at Grim over his shoulder and pulled his hair back into a short ponytail. He pulled out the keyboard from underneath the desktop and turned on the computer, watching the screen in silence. Once the sign-in form appeared on the screen, he typed something in and logged in after a few attempts.
