Page 49 of The Evening Wolves

“Did you—”

“I heard you!”

Emery took a deep breath. He got out of the car and went inside.

Afternoon sunlight filled the kitchen, and the air smelled like butter and toasted bread. A skillet on the stove still held a few crumbs, suggesting either Tean or Jem—let’s be honest, Jem—had decided to eat grilled cheese for lunch. The house was quiet. For about ten seconds.

“Honestly,” John said as he came into the house. That power-surge smile was still there. It didn’t match his eyes. “Honestly, they did me a favor, you know? Somebody should have cleaned that stuff out a long time ago.”

“What are you talking about?”

Colt stormed past them, every step shaking the house.

“Get back here,” Emery said.

Somehow, his son managed to stomp harder as he continued toward the stairs.

“Colt, God damn it!” Emery threw the skillet into the sink, where it clanged against the stainless steel. He pushed his hands through his hair and looked at John. “That school has got to have security cameras. It’s twenty-fucking-twenty. I want to know who did this.”

“Ree.” John laughed. “Relax. We’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

A door slammed upstairs. Biscuit’s distant bark sounded startled.

“Oh no you fucking don’t,” Emery said.

When he got to Colt’s room, though, the door was locked, of course. Emery hammered on it. “Open this door right now!”

“Go away!” Colt screamed. His voice was raw, and it sounded like he was crying.

“Colt, I swear to Christ!”

“Just leave me alone!”

John passed Emery in the hallway, headed toward their bedroom. Emery gave the door a frustrated slap and then followed.

He paced as John opened their closet and began sliding clothes along the hang rod.

“That son of a bitch was behind this,” Emery said. “Drew. You know he had something to do with this bullshit.”

“High school trophies,” John said. “Come on.”

“What is he? The JV coach? Probably not even that. Probably some kind of assistant. And he just happens to be the only adult in the building today when this shit goes down. He just happens to split up the kids, spread them out all over the place, and that’s supposed to be a coincidence? No fucking way.”

“I mean, I’m an adult. I’m a grown man. I’m not some washed-up jock clinging to my glory days.” Hangers made a shimmering sound against the rod. John threw something to the floor, and in the indirect light through the windows, it took a moment for Emery to make it out. His old letterman jacket, still in a garment bag. “What do I care about that stuff? I hated being that kid.”

“John, what are you—”

A battered Wahredua Wildcats hat hit the floor next. Then a windbreaker. Then a hoodie. Joggers. He bent, rummaged through the shoes on the floor of the closet, and pitched first one sneaker and then another. They were custom, white leather with accents in Wahredua Wildcats colors: red and gold. They’d sparked a moderately serious argument about discretionary spending. Emery stared as the pile grew. The hat and the letterman jacket were the only pieces that dated back to their time in high school; John had acquired the rest recently, always with an explanation that it was a fundraiser for Colt’s team, or he’d wear it to Colt’s games. Sometimes it was Colt who made the argument for him. They’d bought two pairs of the sneakers.

Emery tried again. “What’s happening right now?”

John scooped up the pile of clothing and started for the door.

Emery went after him. All he could see was the back of John: the set of his shoulders, the stiffness of his spine. He took the steps two at a time with an energy that Emery couldn’t decipher. In his head, he pictured that smile growing brighter and brighter, the bulb exploding.

“Slow down,” Emery said.

If John heard him, though, he didn’t stop.

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