He did have to talk to someone, didn’t he? Oh fuck. He never did like therapists much, but they did have a purpose. It was more than he could say for himself much of the time.

When Roan got home, all was quiet, and his stomach rumbled uneasily, reacting finally to the high octane cop shop coffee. Before unpacking the groceries, he went upstairs and made sure Par was just sleeping, not dead. Only then did he go downstairs and put the groceries away.

He decided to eat something in hopes of settling his stomach, so he noshed on some chocolate chip mint ice cream while booting up Thora’s laptop. He was afraid it might be password protected, which would make it something of pain to get past, but luckily Thora hadn’t password protected a damn thing.

The desktop was fairly blank, with a picture of turquoise water and a bright white sand beach as a background. Along with the internet browser shortcut and a shortcut to some MP3 files, there were two folders: one marked “Group” and the other marked simply “Others”. He opened the Group folder only to find about a dozen word documents, which he started opening in order.

It was a diary. Or perhaps memoirs for a book or a blog; it seemed to be in book format. It was clearly about her experiences with the Willow Springs rehab and recovery group specifically for rich people who didn’t want the dirty laundry about their children’s drug addictions coming out. But Thora was happy to air the dirty laundry - more than happy.

Although she only referred to the people in her recovery group by first initials, the descriptions of the family they came from made them easy to suss out. Matt - M. - got off the easiest, probably because he was her friend, but she still described him as “basically pathetic” and “constantly mooning over a man he couldn’t have”. (Ouch.) D. - Drake Stein - was summed up as a preening egotist who had made it a personal goal to bed as many women as possible in the center, and in direct violation of the rules was having it off with a married counselor nearly twice his age; behind her back, he slagged her off in the most cruel manner possible, and he had photos he planned to post on the internet if she didn’t give him prescription pills once he was out of the center. N. - Nikki Bartolonis - was described as a total airhead, a ditz more concerned with looking good and appearing fashionable than anything else. She got herself hooked on diet pills, and didn’t think of herself as a drug addict, mainly because all she wanted to do was fit into a size zero. In rehab, she became bulimic so she didn’t gain weight, but swore Thora to secrecy about it. T. - Trang a.k.a. Trey - was a closet homosexual who denied he was one because it was a “sin” and “wrong”, and also jeopardized his position of inheriting his family’s wealth, as his parents made it clear that “fags” were not welcome in the family. He was engaged to be married to the daughter of friends of his family, even though he’d barely even spent any time with her, and had had a fling with Matt at some point, but they had fallen out spectacularly, because Matt thought he was a “self-loathing fairy” and wanted nothing to do with a “closet case”. Any mention of his sexuality made Trang “violently angry” - he continued to deny being gay, even after admitting he’d had sex with Matt - and he really wasn’t a drug addict at all, but he thought it was preferable that his family think that rather than come to know he was gay. G. - Roan had no idea who that was; he’d have to ask Matt - was described as a “himbo”, a good looking rich boy who was coasting his way through life on his parent’s money, and had only been sent here as to avoid conviction for being caught drunken driving with an ounce of cocaine in his car. He’d had a friend sneak booze into the center for him in a fake shaving cream can. She characterized him as “a Pauly Shore for the 00’s.” (Double ouch.) DW - Danae Willis - was described as a total “rich bitch” who looked down at everyone in the center and insisted she too didn’t have a drug problem, it was just her “gold digger” of a step-father wanted her out of the way so he could spend more of her mother’s money, which Danae felt was her money by right. Thora called her a “princess without a kingdom”, which Roan felt was rather poetic of her. Finally F. - another person he didn’t know - was described as a “Goth queen”, alcoholic and suicidal, who was also the youngest member of the group and had cutting problems, which she attempted to explain away - poorly - as “tribal scarring“. She left the center two weeks in, after a half hearted suicide attempt.

Beyond this were stories of Willow Springs, which seemed rather tony with harsh pretensions, that was at its core largely ineffectual. Thora wasn’t a bad writer, but this tattletale memoir needed a bit more polish.

Still, at least he had a motive for her death now. There were probably a lot of people who would be upset if this ever saw the light of day, and “Trey” Phan had moved up to the top of his interview list. So mention of his sexuality made him “violently angry”? (Thora wrote of an incident where Matt confronted Trey over the use of an offensive slang term for gays, and Trey got so angry he threw a chair through the “relaxation area” window and threatened to “cave (Matt’s) skull in” if he didn’t shut his “fucking faggot mouth”. Much to Matt’s credit, he invited him to give it a shot, but by that time orderlies arrived to break it up.) Would he be willing to kill to hide it? Funny how whoever set up Eric knew exactly where to pick up a hustler.

Finished with the Group folder, he moved on to the Others folder, but found that sadly that had been password protected. Since he was yawning enough that tears were blurring his eyes, he decided that he’d call Matt in the morning and see if he had any ideas about a password, and if that was a bust, he’d see if Kevin could crack it for him.

Oh shit - Kevin. That was a whole other can of worms. Again, he’d worry about it tomorrow.

He went upstairs, brushed his teeth and undressed, crawling into bed beside Paris. He was in his dead to the world sleep, so much so that when Roan put his arms around him and snuggled up against his back, he didn’t even stir. He breathed in the scent of his hair, of his warm, sleeping skin, and wondered if Paris wanted to die, just like Carmen and her friends. Could he handle it as well if he wanted to?

That was something to face and handle on another day - assuming he ever could.

****

He was woken up by the creepy ambient noise of Vidna Obmana playing on the stereo downstairs, and Roan was surprised to open his eyes to a coldly bright room, another sunny day where the sun’s heat was strangely absent. Even though he heard the thrumming hum of the heater, the air was still remarkably cold. He had to assume Paris hadn’t been up too long himself.

After showering and deciding he was too lazy to shave today, he got dressed and went downstairs to the warm smell of toast, cinnamon, and coffee. He found Paris sitting on the sofa, the laptop balanced on his lap. “So you broke in and did some snooping? How illegal of you,” he said cheerfully.

Paris was more bright eyed and awake than he’d seen him in a long time. Wandering out to the kitchen, he saw that a medical kit was left on the counter. Dee must have been here and dropped off the B-12 shots already, which explained everything. Paris had left out the cinnamon and the bread, but he had to go into the refrigerator to retrieve the honey butter. He bought this last night? Weirdness; he could barely remember shopping at all. “I never said I was a saint,” Roan responded, checking out the fridge and freezer to see if he’d bought anything really weird. Yep, there it was - meatless Buffalo chicken wings. If they were meatless, what they hell were they made of? That was it - no more shopping on Vicodin.

“Good thing too, ‘cause honey, you ain’t even close.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Hey, that was a compliment! Saints are boring. Also, bad in bed.”

Roan shook his head and smiled, but struggled to keep it out of his voice. This was old Paris again - he almost felt like crying from joy. “You’ve bedded a lot of saints, have you?”

“A couple. The lights from their halos always kept me up.” Paris paused, long enough to get serious. “It’s so weird to hear about someone freaking out because they’re gay in this day and age, isn’t it? I mean, shit, what’s the trauma?”

“Well, there are still a lot of people who think it’s perversion, or should be listed as mental disorder, or would be a whole lot happier if we just went back into the closet and stayed there. There are people who think it’s a choice, like when they were thirteen they woke up one day and said to themselves, “You know what - I’m going to be heterosexual!” See, we made the wrong choice by picking being gay and training ourselves to get turned on by men.”

“You’re speaking of the ultra-religious, I presume. You think Phan’s parents are religious nut jobs?”

“I don’t know. They could just be traditionalists. And by the way, who told you you could read that, snoopy?”

“You taught me well, Obi-Wan. I have become well versed in the way of the sneak.”

“Don’t blame it on me, you were sneaky when I met you.” His toast was done, so he spread the honey butter on and dusted the cinnamon over the top. It was really simple and really good … and perhaps a bit gay, but hey, what could you do? They now had some frou-frou espresso machine, given to them as a “wedding gift” from Paris’s folks (what did you get your son and his husband? Roan had kind of been hoping for matching bowling balls, but Par chided him that his parents weren’t quite that clueless), and Roan had never bothered to learn how to use it, so only Paris operated it. He poured a cup of coffee that smelled strong enough to strip paint - but in a good way - and went out to join him on the couch. As soon as he sat down next to him, Paris asked, “What’s Callie’s birthday?”

He had to think for a moment. It didn’t help that he’d come to think of her by her real name, Thora, not her assumed name. “June 17, 1985. Why?”

Paris didn’t answer, just typed the numbers 061785 into the box that popped up when you tried to open the Others folder. It came back with an error message. “Damn it.”

“It’s rarely that easy,” Roan commiserated.

“We can keep trying. What was the name of her childhood pet? What’s her favorite color? Where was she born?”

“Boston.”

He tried that too, with no effect. “Damn it.”

“I’ll call Matt and see if he has any ideas, but I may have to turn it to a more expert hacker after that.”

Par gave him a very knowing look. “Kevin, perhaps?”

He lifted up his slice of toast. “We’re not discussing that now. I’m eating first.”

“Chicken.”

Roan just bit into his toast and chewed it, giving him an evil look.

Paris sighed dramatically and turned back to the screen, trying a few other password guesses at random. “You haven’t talked to her Aunt Hannah yet, have you?”

He took a gulp of the coffee, which was very strong but rather pleasant in spite of it, and then admitted, “No, but I was going to talk to her today.”

“Good. Let me have Trey.”

Roan wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly. “What?”

Paris looked at him with a sly, amused smile that was just this side of evil. “Oh, I’m so good with closet cases. Do you know how many of those boys I slept with in college said “I’m not queer”? They must have had untraditional definitions of queer considering what I did to them shortly after they said that.”

“Yes, but it’s not fair, because you’re you, and you’d almost have to be dead not to think you were hot. Also, you were Satan in college, weren’t you?”

“I prefer Lucifer,” he replied, giving him a big grin. Paris reached up and ran his knuckles over his cheek. “Speaking of hot, the stubbly look suits you.”

“I was too lazy to shave. I’ll do it later when the itching drives me insane.”

“Oh, and here I was looking forward to a bit of beard burn later on.”

Roan raised an eyebrow at that, even as he wondered if they had time to fool around this morning. “You’re just trying to manipulate me, aren’t you?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Once a cocktease, always a cocktease.”

Paris leaned forward, so close he thought he was going to kiss him, but he stayed just out of range. “And if I can manipulate you, just think of the effect I’ll have on a pent up closet case.” He then brushed his lips against his and sat back, grinning from ear to ear.

Roan tried to scowl at him, but had to look away and scoff, shaking his head at being so easily played by him. How awful was that? He wondered at what age he‘d become immune to Par‘s machinations, and realized with a sudden sickening jolt that he‘d never know. “You’ll kill the poor boy.”

“He’s young; he’ll survive.”

“He could be dangerous, Par. From what Thora said about him, it seems he projects his self-loathing outward.”

“Again, no worries. I’ve dealt with that kind before too. And I might be kind of sickly right now, but I‘m still an ex-jock, still the former hockey and football player. I have a forearm shiver that’ll make you spit your teeth out, and a hip check that’ll bust your ribs. I’m not afraid of getting physical. In fact, I kind of like it.” He raised his eyebrows in a deliberately lascivious manner. “But it won’t come to that. He’ll be so paralyzed with lust he won’t know what to do.”

“As long as you’re not too full of yourself. Keep in mind he’s the best suspect in Thora’s and Eric’s murders.”

“I know, and if I think he’s that unstable, I’ll get out of there. I’m not a complete idiot, just a partial one.”

He gave him a warning look, and didn’t like the idea of Par going off alone to interview a man who could be a cold blooded, desperate killer, but he also knew if he made a big issue of it Paris was likely to take offense, and assume that he only felt that way because he was sick. After all, he’d let Paris go off and use his charms on other persons of interest before, hadn’t he? And he had to admit that Par, as sick as he was, still had that deadly charm, the kind that could lure an otherwise law abiding person into outrageous acts just to impress and get close to him. Paris was so utterly irresistible when he turned on the charm full blast that you could imagine the Pope beating the shit out of a bishop just to get next to him. If he’d been an actor, Paris easily could have been a movie star - he had charisma and sex appeal to burn. His illness hadn’t taken that away from him yet.

But it was risky - this guy could be a fucking lunatic. Par was a big, strong guy, but he wasn’t quite as strong as he used to be. “Why don’t you take Matt with you?”

Paris narrowed his eyes at him coldly. “Matt as back up?”

“No, not as back up - come on, I‘m not stupid either. He’ll know where Trey is, and he should be able to take you there. And on the way, you can ask him why the hell he stays in touch with a man he supposedly categorized as a self-loathing fairy, one he can’t be alone in a room with without a huge argument erupting.”

Paris’s look softened as he considered that. “Hey, yeah, that’s a good question.”

“You still have much to learn, young one.”

He poked him in the ribs. “Don’t get cocky. You bite it in the third reel.”

“Damn it. I thought I was better than that.”

“Should’ve given in to the dark side, like me. Believe me, it’s hell of a lot of fun.” He then kissed him before putting the laptop on the coffee table and heading upstairs to change. Roan finished his toast and called Matt, telling him he needed to chauffeur Paris to wherever Trey was. He seemed a little surprised, but willing to do it, like Roan expected. He also asked him about possible passwords, but none Matt speculated on panned out. He also asked if she talked about putting out some memoirs, and he said it was all over her MySpace page that she was writing about her experiences in rehab. Apparently a few people were unhappy about that - and yes, Trey was included in that.

Tired of creepy ambience, he got up and hit the CD shuffle, since Paris had loaded up the player, and the sound switched over to Peeping Tom, which was still creepy, but in a totally different, noisier way. He decided to leave it, for fear that the next one up would be The Prodigy.

He got a glass of pineapple orange juice and perused Thora’s MySpace page, which he really should have done before. She had music playing on her page, Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus”, and he wondered if that was a hacker’s sick joke. Well, maybe she liked Depeche Mode, even though he couldn’t remember seeing them in her CD collection. Maybe they were on her iPod.

Her MySpace page was full of add ons and flashy things that bogged down the page loading up, but it was also full of text as she was a chatty sort. She only talked about her “memoirs” peripherally, saying it was very cathartic to get all of this “out of the closet” - what an unfortunate choice of words. Or was it deliberate? Was she going out of her way to taunt Trey and the others? He found some feedback left by people who had no accounts or obviously fake ones where they went off on her, saying no one would give a shit about her memoirs and she could be sued if she revealed something “slanderous”, as well as one message that said she should stop now or “she‘d regret it“, and he found himself wondering which of her rehab mates those were. The user names offered no real clues.

Paris came down the stairs looking incredible. He went with the simple, classic look of the tight white t-shirt, the low slung jeans that showed off a glimpse of his flat belly, and a black leather jacket. His hair was perfectly mussed, a calculated look that seemed natural and sexy, and at the bottom of the staircase he turned around slowly, holding his arms out to his side. “Well, how do I look?”

Damn. “Like I want to rip your clothes off right this second. You’re gonna kill that kid; he’s going to explode, and they’re going to have to scrape his remains off the wall.”

“Yeesh, I was with you until you got descriptive.”

“Can’t help it. You make me poetic.”

“I thought I made you horny.”

“Same damn thing.” He went over to him and gave him a kiss, enjoying the warmth of his body, which felt wonderfully solid and strong with all the B-12 and caffeine in his veins. He still tasted of cinnamon.

Paris rubbed his forehead against his, running his hands through his hair, and said, “How about we come back here and exchange notes once we’re done with the interviews? Take a long lunch.”

“Only exchange notes?”

“No one said we can’t exchange notes in bed.”

That was true, and it sounded like something to look forward to. But of course it was just then that there was a knock on the door, totally killing the mood. Paris sighed and kissed him on the forehead before turning towards the door. “Wish me luck with Matt.”

“Good luck. Remember, if he starts running off at the mouth, you can always shove him out of the car.”

He snickered and opened the door. Matt stood there dressed like a gay Johnny Cash - black t-shirt, black jeans - but when he saw Paris he blinked for a moment. “Whoa. We’re not going to Panic, are we?”

“Only if that’s where Trey is.”

“Umm, no, he’s not. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that.”

Interesting - yet another checkmark in the suspicious column for Trey. Paris must have thought that too, as he gave him a knowing look, and then saluted sarcastically as way of goodbye. “See you later, chief.”

“Be careful,” he warned him, and flashed Matt a look that said the same thing, only he was quietly asking him to make sure Paris was careful. Matt must have gotten the message, as he looked a bit concerned, frowning slightly. Maybe he wasn’t confident that he could control Paris (which was a good bet, as no one really could, but he‘d appreciate the attempt).

Before the door even shut, the phone rang, and after momentarily wondering if he should let it go to the machine, he picked it up. “Heya, Angus,” Murphy said.

“Hello yourself, Dropkick. What’s up?”

“Well, I got the coroner’s report on Thora Bishop.”

“Terrific. What was the cause of death?”

She sighed heavily, and he knew then it was bad news. “You’re really not going to like this.”

“Just hit me with it. A Scotsman can take anything.”

“I’m off the case.”

He hadn’t expected that. “What? Why?”

“Because she died of a speedball overdose. Her case has been reclassified a suicide.”