Page 45 of The Evening Wolves

The farther they moved into the school, the more Emery narrowed the range of possibilities. They were leaving the classrooms behind and approaching the athletic facilities. The gym, he thought. The gym was a favorite target because there was so much room to work. Or the locker rooms; for whatever reason, generations of boys had found the locker rooms the ideal spot for fuckery. He thought, like touching a live wire, about that day all those years ago: John-Henry Somerset standing naked in front of him, steam swirling up from golden skin, the brush of dry lips, the hot and cold of his own body like he had a fever.

The sound of Yarmark clearing his throat drew Emery back to the present. The younger officer did a whiplash check of John’s expression and said, “I’m really sorry about this, Chief.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

“Nobody believes it.”

All John said was “Thanks.”

After a quick glance around, Yarmark lowered his voice. “Chief, someone shot that guy. The one who pretended to, you know, know stuff about you.” His voice dropped even lower. “They’re talking about you. I think they want to pin that on you too.”

“Do you know if they have any evidence?” Emery asked.

Yarmark only gave a tight shake of his head. He might have said more, but when they took the next corner, the scene of the crime came into view. This hallway was lined with trophy cases, photos, framed equipment and jerseys. Light warped and ran along the brass plating. More light sparked against the shards of glass strewn across the floor, and when Emery looked again, he saw that the front of one of the trophy cases had been broken. Overhead, the banners celebrating Wahredua High’s few state wins hung where shadows thickened. Colt stood near the broken trophy case, cradling one hand with the other. Even after months of watching—and hearing about—the process, Emery still wasn’t used to Colt’s longer hair. It had a wave to it, and between Jem and Auggie, he’d learned to style it in a way that fit his face. For an instant—because of the strangeness of this encounter, maybe, or the fact that only a handful of the fluorescent panels were lit, or the disorientation of the last few days—Emery didn’t recognize his son, and he thought, Who is that man?

Next to Colt stood a pair of familiar faces. One was Officer—Lieutenant—Peterson, who must have taken the call personally because of the stakes. His face was set in professional neutrality. The other was Drew Klein. In high school, he’d been one of John-Henry’s friends. He’d fallen in teenage Emery Hazard’s rather broad category of people labeled assholes. Not because Drew was particularly aggressive in seeking out and tormenting Emery (not like John and Mikey and a handful of others). But because Drew was a pack animal, and because whenever the teasing and bullying and harassment began, he was quick to join in. Now, an adult, he had acquired a paunch that strained against the Wahredua Wildcats polo, and he looked jowly under a day’s worth of stubble. He didn’t smile when he saw them, or nod, or anything, and Emery remembered, vaguely, John mentioning some sort of trouble with Drew. Something about a speeding ticket for his son, special treatment.

“Good luck,” Yarmark whispered as he retreated toward the front of the building.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” John said when they reached the trio. “Colt.”

Colt looked up, eyes rimmed with red and full of tears waiting to fall.

“Are you all right?” Emery asked.

The boy nodded, but he moved his hands, one still holding the other.

“What happened to your hand?”

“He broke into the trophy case,” Drew said. “What does it look like?”

“Mr. Klein,” Peterson said in his even voice, “we talked about this.”

“He desecrated this place.”

“Desecrated a bunch of Pee-Wee trophies?” Emery asked.

John gave him a look. “Ree.”

“That’s a pretty big word, Drew. Did you pick it up from a pack of chewing gum?”

“Hey, just because you were a butt-fuck nobody in high school—” Drew began.

Colt’s face transformed: eyes widening, lips peeling back, features hardening. He angled his body toward Drew, settled his weight on the balls of his feet, one arm dropping as he brought the other back.

“Colt,” Emery snapped.

Colt wavered.

“Get over here.”

Drew opened his mouth.

“Now!”

Colt slunk over to him. He was breathing hard, but after a moment, he cradled his hand again and stared at the floor. Emery settled a hand on his neck and squeezed once; the muscles there were tight.

“You see—” Drew began.

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