Page 46 of The Evening Wolves

“Mr. Klein,” Peterson said, “don’t talk unless I ask you a direct question. Do you understand?”

Klein’s puffy cheeks colored, but after a moment, he gave a jerky nod.

“Mr. Hazard, I don’t want to have to ask you to leave. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” Emery bit out.

John gave a considering look at the trophy case and began to ask, “What happened—” Then he stopped.

Emery followed his gaze.

He knew what would be in there. He’d always known what was in that case. The trophies from their senior year were held there. Plaques. Photos. That was the year John-Henry Somerset and the rest of the football team had won state for their division. There was a team photo, and then an individual one of the star quarterback: John-Henry Somerset blond and tousled, golden and perfect. Skinnier, then, because he hadn’t grown into all that lean muscle. The hair slightly different before he’d changed how he wore it as an adult. But it was still John, the John of Emery’s boyhood dreams, frozen forever in a perfect moment.

And now, spray-painted across both photos—and, for that matter, the plaque that celebrated their win at state—were the words KIDDIE DIDDLER.

“Ah.” Someone who didn’t know John, someone who didn’t love him, wouldn’t have heard the slight unsteadiness of that sound. “I see.”

“There’s more,” Peterson said.

John laughed, and the sound seemed too big for this moment. “Jeez, do I want to know?”

“Your jersey got torn down.” Peterson indicated the gym, where jerseys with retired numbers hung. “It was also vandalized.”

“They pissed on it,” Colt said.

“Who?” Emery asked.

But Colt shook his head and wiped his eyes on his shoulder.

“Jesus,” John-Henry said, and he laughed again. “Ok, I didn’t expect that. So, what’s the problem? Am I supposed to file a complaint?”

Emery opened his mouth and shut it again.

“Mr. Klein says he caught Colt spray-painting the trophies.”

John turned, and for a moment, the hurt was visible in his face. Emery didn’t have to hear his thoughts; he knew. When Colt had come to them, at the beginning, he’d resented John. Hated him might be closer to the truth. And much of where he’d focused that emotion had to do with the John-Henry Somerset from high school.

“That’s a lie,” Colt said.

Drew had recovered some of his smugness. “He had the can in his hand, and he tried to hide it when he saw me.”

“I didn’t do anything! He’s lying!”

Emery tightened his hand on Colt’s nape and, in a low voice, said, “Enough.”

Colt blinked rapidly and then gave up, surrendering again to wipe his eyes on his shoulder.

“Did you see him using the spray paint?” John asked. “Or just holding the can?”

Drew shifted his weight. “He was the only one here—”

One of the more remarkable things about John, in Emery’s opinion, was how easily, how naturally he controlled social situations. And, since becoming an adult, for the most part, John used that ability for good. It made him a good cop. It made him a good host. It made him a good friend. And, off the record, it made him a remarkable lover—attentive, insightful, able to predict what Emery might want or need, sometimes before Emery even knew it himself. But right then, Emery watched as John used the other side of that skill.

He stopped Drew without even opening his mouth. Without doing anything, really, except angling his body slightly toward Peterson, the new stance cutting Drew out of the conversation. When John did speak, his tone did the same work: the collegiality of two men who had walked a beat, neatly pushing Drew even farther out of the conversation.

“I don’t suppose anyone else saw anything?”

“Mr. Klein says the boys were moving through the building, doing conditioning at different stations.”

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