Page 15 of What We May Be

“You bet your sorry ass I do,” Trevor seethed over his hunched form. “And there’s more where that came from if you don’t get the hell out of town.”

“Trev, calm down.”

“Fuck calm, and stop calling me that. You made a promise, and I told you what would happen if you broke it. I’m not gonna let you hurt her again. You need to leave. Now.”

“Let me explain.”

“Wrong answer.” Trevor lifted his knee and rammed it into Sean’s chin.

Head flying back, Sean slumped against the closed door. “Fuck, man, if you’d stop hitting me for five seconds, I’d explain why I’m here.”

“I don’t care.” Trevor crowded him against the door. “You left. Twice. And both times, I made a promise to myself and Charlie to always take care of us. I keep my promises.”

“Trev, I didn’t mean—”

“A decade we’ve been here, never quite moving on, never quite making it work, neither one of us, and when we’re finally ready for a fresh start, here you are. The past thrown in our faces. Again.”

“Like I told Charlie, I’m here as a simple favor for a friend. I’m not here to cause trouble. I’ll just be in and out.”

Trevor laughed, an unhinged cackle, because what the fuck else was he supposed to do when faced with such a blatant lie. “In and out, my ass, and you wouldn’t know simple if it punched you in the fucking face.”

Sean pushed off the door and straightened to his full height. “Are you mad for her or for you?”

Trevor didn’t back down either, leaving less than a foot of space between them, every inch of it vibrating. “Both of us. But yeah, me too, asshole. I loved you, and you also made it possible for me to love my best friend. We had it all, Sean, and then you fucking left. Both times without telling me goodbye. How the fuck is that supposed to make me feel?”

Sean’s body swayed toward his, a hand coming up as if to cup his face. “I couldn’t—”

Trevor stopped him short, hand around Sean’s wrist, holding on to his anger and resisting the promise of Sean’s touch. “Whatever you’re gonna say next, don’t, because you don’t know if you could or couldn’t. You didn’t give us a fucking chance.”

Sean’s fingers curled, deflating with the rest of him. “Trevor, I’m sorry.”

He wished that was enough. Wished it was enough to wipe away the pain of the past ten years and of that morning a month ago when he’d been left behind again without so much as a word or parting kiss. But it wasn’t. He couldn’t trust Sean not to leave again. In and out he’d said. No pretense of staying this time. Why the fuck had he even come? He released Sean’s wrist and stalked the opposite direction of the tempting past toward the open sliding glass doors. “I’ve been picking up the pieces after you for ten years, Sean, and I’m fucking tired. We all are.”

Direct hit, judging by Sean’s sharp inhale behind him. Good, he deserved to—

Trevor drew up short next to the table in the middle of the room. He’d seen his share of crime scene photos over the years—he’d practically been raised by the Henbys—but they were more disturbing when they were someone he personally knew. As with Mitch’s and Cal’s murders, the photos from the scene of Jefferson Marshall’s death were no easier to see. There were shots of how they’d found him—hanging from the barn rafters with a thick rope noose around his neck, face bloated and discolored. He was clothed in dress slacks, a button-down shirt, and a sports jacket, wrinkled and torn in multiple places. The pictures of him in a body bag were no better—vacant eyes open in his mangled face; deep, red ligature marks scoring his neck; hands and nails scraped and bloodied.

There was one photo in the file not of Jeff, and Sean had placed that picture in the middle of the table. A thin strip of paper with a handwritten note on it. A quote Trevor recognized immediately. He’d highlighted and underlined it in the worn paperback he kept in his desk. “Cordelia.”

“What?”

“The note. The photos…” Taken together, the picture—the scene—resolved. “It’s Cordelia’s death from King Lear.”

Sean hustled to his side. “Explain.”

Trevor picked up the photo of the note. “This quote is from the original text.” He handed Sean the picture. “King Lear says it after he finds his daughter, Cordelia, murdered—”

“In a barn. I remember now. You were in that play our senior year.” A flicker of a smile, then his brow furrowed. “She was hung in a barn.”

Trevor nodded. “Falsely accused of treason.”

“Treason? An HU professor?” Sean’s gaze darted from the photo to the table and back. “Jefferson was slight of build. Easy snatch and grab from campus. Two points for convenience. He was also insanely well connected. Ten points for treason.” He tossed the photo on the table. “Any idea how Jeff might be connected, falsely or not, with treason of some sort?”

“No, but I can ask around. He’s on my tenure committee, but otherwise, I tried to steer clear of him. He was a colossal asshole.”

Sean chuckled. “Consistent with what I’ve heard. Any info would be helpful, but be discreet. We don’t know who or what we’re dealing with yet.”

Trevor leaned a hip against the table and crossed his arms. “I may be a professor, but I’ve spent most of my life around cops.”

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