As soon as they got under way, Matt explained that Trey worked at the big Barnes and Noble on Madison Street, as he couldn’t quite hack working for Menham Lewis, the financial consultation firm that was currently run by Trey’s father, John Phan. Trey got an MBA in business administration, but he had confided to Matt that he found it all unbearably boring and he hated it; he hated working for his father’s company. But rather than tell him that, Trey told him he thought it was better if he got some experience “working with people”, which John thought was a good idea, which was the only reason why he allowed it. Trey was totally cowed by his father, a stern taskmaster who demanded both perfection and obedience, and Trey was too scared to go against him. His mother was no better, manipulative and bossy, and had arranged Trey’s engagement to the woman he barely knew.

Paris asked why he still kept in touch with Trey, and he shrugged, embarrassed, and was careful not to look at him as he told him that although he couldn’t stand Trey much of the time, he kind of felt bad for him. He had almost no friends at all, although he apparently kept himself quite busy in X rated gay chat rooms. “His handle is - get this - LongJadeDong,” Matt said, shaking his head. “And believe me, it’s not.”

Matt wasn’t lying, but it was clear he was conflicted. He probably still liked Trey a little bit, and as such held on, even though most of the affection had curdled and become anger and resentment instead. Paris asked if Trey had a temper, and Matt seemed reluctant to answer that. But finally he admitted that he did, that Trey tried so hard to repress every emotion he had that they often came out in sudden, explosive moments, where he often broke furniture and shouted until he was hoarse, but Matt claimed he never got physically violent - not with him, at any rate. Paris believed that Trey had never gotten violent with him, but he sensed that Matt was hiding something - Trey had gotten violent with someone, even if it was just a college bar fight. He was sure Roan was currently running a background check that might turn up his history of violence, if there was one. Paris was starting to think there was. Repression often led to ugly consequences; no good ever came out of it. How could it?

He asked Matt if he’d read Thora’s memoir, and he said he hadn’t, that he’d wanted to but she’d said he’d have to wait to read it along with everyone else. Paris mentioned that he and Roan had seen the memoir, and Matt was not only surprised but very curious about it. He told him that the violent incident between him and Trey at the Willow Springs Center had been recounted, which made Matt wince and stare resolutely at the Kia ahead of them. Paris also mentioned that she had described him as constantly mooning over a man he couldn’t have, which mortified him. Paris assured him it was okay, that Roan didn’t realize that Thora meant Matt was mooning over him, and Matt was so horrified he almost swerved them into the oncoming lane.

Once he got a hold of himself, Matt asked haltingly, “How - how did - did I -”

“Don’t worry about it. Roan will never get it, because he honestly believes that he’s an inhuman freak pretty much unworthy of love. In fact, that’s pretty much all you need to know about Roan psychologically - he’s afraid he’s never quite good enough, and that he’s not really Human. He will never admit it, but it’s always kind of there. He might shrug off his bad childhood now, but no matter how jaded you are, that kind of shit leaves scars.”

Matt nodded in understanding, calming down. He wanted to know about Roan, know the stuff he couldn’t know otherwise, so he was happy to listen and forget about his own shame at being found out so easily. “There always something about him that struck me as kinda sad, y’know? Like maybe under it all he was kinda depressed.”

“Well, he was diagnosed as a clinical depressive. But he seems to be bulling through it on his own, which probably isn’t recommended, but you how stubborn he is.”

“He’s a depressive?” Matt seemed surprised by that. “I had no idea. He doesn’t seem like it. I mean … he doesn’t seem like any of that. He seems so confident, y’know. He seems more sure of himself than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“He’s confident in what he does, and his ability to solve puzzles - he doesn’t seriously doubt himself there. And showing weakness is something he’s just not going to do. Not in public, at any rate. But he’s not as invincible as he seems.”

Matt accepted that, ruminating over it like it was some great truth of the universe. Finally, after a long moment, he asked, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’m going to ask you a favor, and before you do it, I want you to know what you’re in for.”

His sidelong glance was really suspicious now. “What kinda favor?”

Paris took a deep breath before continuing. If Ro knew what he had just said to Matt, he’d probably get so mad he’d lion out, but he probably would never know. (Well, not until he was dead and didn’t have to worry about it.) “You know as well as anybody that I don’t have a lot of time left.” The baldness of the statement made Matt wince, but what could he do? He’d already accepted the fact of life that he was going to die - it wasn’t his fault if other people weren’t quite ready to deal with it. “When I’m gone, I want you to help make sure Roan doesn’t retreat from the world and stay in his damn house moping like a sullen bear in a cave. Annoy the shit out of him, tempt him with work, get him out there - I honestly don’t care what you do, just makes sure it works.”

He’d baffled the poor boy; he looked stricken, like he wasn’t sure what to say. Paris felt like he should take a picture, because Roan would never believe he made Matt speechless, no matter how briefly. Finally, he said, “I - I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“Just annoy the shit out of him, and don’t give up on him. I’m asking friends to do it, because I know he’s going to try and withdraw from the world. He’s been hurt a lot, and it’s just what he does when he’s hurt. He shuts down.”

“He wasn’t that way when he was shot.”

“That was physical pain; he’s almost inured to physical pain at this point. It’s emotional pain that kills him.” He remembered Roan finally breaking down and telling him about Connor before they got married. See, Paris always knew Ro must have had a really bad relationship in his background, but he could have never guessed that his boyfriend went off and killed himself. Talk about a drama queen. But hey, playwright, maybe that made a certain amount of sense.

That solved the mystery of the locked lower desk drawer in Ro’s office as well. Apparently they were mementoes of his relationship with Con that he couldn’t quite get rid of, including the last script he completed before his death via train (which was very Anna Karenina, but again, he couldn’t say that without seeming both callous and incredibly bitchy), with a dedication that Con had written on the cover page, reading: ‘To the most beautiful man I’ve ever known. Love always.’ The play was titled “God’s Country”, and was a semi-autobiographical tale about a fucked up family that gets caught up in the Catholic Church’s sex scandals, which sounded really depressing and pretty much was, although as soon as Paris read it, he instantly spotted a character who was clearly Roan. He was Ian, the wife‘s laconic cop brother, a rare beacon of sense in a chaotic sea, and probably the most sympathetic and adult character of the bunch. It was basically a huge downer (then again, a cheerful play about alcoholism, abuse, and pedophilia would have been jarring to say the least), but it wasn’t a badly written story; as far as Paris could tell - and if he was honest, he was no arbiter of this - Con wasn’t a bad writer. According to Ro, the play was currently running off off Broadway and doing pretty well for itself, as death, especially a rather dramatic and tragic one, could be good for an artistic career. Ro knew this because all profits from Connor’s work were automatically split between him and Siobhan, Connor’s ex-wife, as stipulated in his will. Roan didn’t touch the money, he didn’t want it, but it hadn’t been very much … so far. But he’d heard from Siobhan that a gay filmmaker was interested in doing a film version of God’s Country, and if so, it could bring the pair of them a sizable chunk of change. Roan saw this as “blood money” and didn’t want it, which Paris thought certified him as crazy - okay, maybe their break up precipitated Connor’s suicide, but Ro had to know he wasn’t responsible for it, that it was the impulsive action of a man he himself categorized as self-destructive. Come on - movie money! Shit, if it was him, he’d already be pricing hot tubs.

Okay, it wasn’t his ex-boyfriend, and it was really insensitive for him to think that way and he knew it. Paris was actually a little embarrassed at his own inherent bitchiness towards Connor, a man he’d never met, and only knew from photographs. It was easy to see what Ro saw in him, as he was attractive, and he had laser blue eyes that looked both sharp and haunted. But Paris felt an unaccustomed sting of jealousy, as Ro had clearly loved him, even though he left him because he couldn’t live with him. He was just used to causing jealousy, being the man whore that he was, not being on the other side of it. It was kind of weird, actually, especially since the man he briefly felt some ill will towards had been long dead, and before that Ro had left him anyways. But it was clear that just the thought of Connor still hurt Ro, and Paris hated that. It was no comfort to think his death would hurt him even more.

Paris told Matt to drop him off and get lost in the parking lot of the Target next door, because if Trey saw Matt he imagined that the jig would be up. Matt was worried about him being alone with Trey, but he assured him that he didn’t think Trey would try anything in such a public place, and if there was any problem, he’d call his cell phone. Matt seemed uncertain about it, but everything he’d told him about Roan had thrown him off and he didn’t have the will to be difficult at this moment.

The Barnes and Noble wasn’t busy yet, although there were a few people wandering around the clean, well stock shelves, although most of them seemed to wander towards the Starbucks that shared a space with the shop and filled the air with a very specific coffee and pastry scent. Although this was the biggest book shop he’d seen in some time, it did occur to him that Roan would hate this place - there was something very sterile about it, commercially clean and acceptable, homogenized and pre-packaged for your convenience. Roan liked his book stores slightly grotty and sloppy, clearly used, temples to books that barely limped through the publishing process and had almost no hope of ever getting on anyone’s best seller list. Roan seemed to embrace his outsider aesthetic as ferociously as most people rushed to embrace their insider status. Still, Paris thought he might buy Ro a book here, a gift he would appreciate, and it really wouldn’t be too difficult to find him one, as he wasn’t too picky about his books outside of certain genres (for instance, he knew Roan hated lawyer thriller genre books - oh dear lord, Grisham could set him off on an hour long rant). Paris browsed while watching Trey out of the corner of his eye. He was one of two clerks at the check out counters, currently ringing up an Oprah’s book club selection for a woman who was quite rudely having a conversation on her cell.

He could see what Matt saw in Trey. He was cute, with fine bone structure and high cheekbones that most male models would kill for. His dark, almond shaped eyes were deep set and heavy lidded, natural bedroom eyes, his face lean and almost knife blade narrow, giving him a hungry look that could be mistaken for rampant passion, and while his olive skin wasn’t exactly flawless, the couple of acne scars on his face gave him a certain type of character that kept him from being blandly attractive and made him kind of interesting. In a strange way, it made him look a little dangerous, which while probably truth in advertising, had a troubling allure. His black hair was cut reasonably short, but had a strange unevenness to it, the hair on the back and sides of his head shorter than the jet black hair on the top of his head, sitting there like a squashed and mangled hat. Either he’d gone for a trendy haircut and suffered a tremendous misfire, or he was growing out a faux-hawk and all the shorn hair was growing in at its own different speeds. He wore a dark blue polo shirt that didn’t flatter his skin tone in the least, and he wondered if that was some attempt to appear straight on his part - an inability to dress. Paris stayed where Trey could see him, pretending to browse the twenty five percent off table (he saw nothing Roan would like here - he’d probably have to go back to the paperbacks, which Roan preferred to read on stake outs anyways), and when the woman left in a cloud of perfume, still nattering away on her phone and ignoring everyone else, he saw Trey’s all encompassing glance become a riveted stare.

Paris smiled to himself as Trey seemed to take an inordinate amount of time studying his ass, then took in the rest of him. He couldn’t help but feel the old swell of pride at how goddamn good looking he was. Was it vain and egotistic of him? Oh fuck yeah, but since he’d gotten so sick, it was nice to know he still had it. Paris turned slowly and caught his eye, and for a moment Trey stared back at him with a heat that was combustible, but then he seemed to remember something - “Oh, right, I’m not supposed to be a homo” -and he looked away suddenly, as if he’d gotten a taser in the ass.

Paris felt really good as he sauntered up to his cash register with his sexiest smile affixed firmly to his face. This was the hunt, and he felt almost ecstatic at the rush of it. This poor kid would be easier prey than he thought. He leaned on the counter, and said, “Hi, I was wondering if you could help me?”

Trey’s eyes scudded towards his face, and again their eyes locked, his stare as helpless as that of a deer in the headlights. He just knew he was thinking he was gorgeous, and of course that gave his ego a needless pumping. (But damn if this type of outward validation still didn’t feel good.) “Um, yeah, if I can,” he said, quickly turning to his register and pretending to do something so he didn’t have to look at him face on.

“I was hoping to buy a book for a friend, but you know, I’m kind of overwhelmed by the choices. I was wondering if you could recommend something.”

His dark eyes flicked towards him, then flicked away, like he was too bright to look upon for long. “Well, what does she like?”

“He likes lots of things, that’s why I’m having such a problem,” Paris said, giving him his sunniest smile and leaning in enough that Trey could probably smell him. The emphasis on “he” made Trey give him a long, hard sidelong glance, and Paris gave him the look. The look which other gay men gave each other, the one that said I’m gay too and interested. Straight people didn’t know the look; they didn’t recognize it when they saw it. They might smile politely back at you, but they’d totally miss the subtext, the edge, the appraisal and hunger in the eyes. Trey recognized it - he returned it before catching himself and looking away again, nervous and fidgety, like he’d broken out in a rash all over his body.

But he glanced back at Paris, as if helpless to resist his overwhelming gravity. Trey was starting to sweat, and it looked like his hands were starting to tremble. Paris’s smile deepened, mainly because he found it a struggle not to laugh. This must have been what it felt like when a cobra hypnotized its prey; this was what it felt like to make someone your puppet. He knew this feeling well, and it was a blast from the past really, a wicked hit of nostalgia. He used to do this all the time before he got infected and his world turned upside down and inside out. It felt really good.

Did that make him evil? Oh, probably. This power over someone, this deliberate manipulation, was wrong, and yet it came with a rush of pure adrenaline. The power was absolutely intoxicating, and he had missed it terribly.

He could make this boy do whatever he wanted him to do. He could make him crawl. Paris supposed he’d have felt a bit sorry for him if he hadn’t suspected that Trey was a killer.

But since he suspected he was, he didn’t regret this one damn bit.

*****

Roan couldn’t believe this. He sat on the arm of the sofa, and asked, “Why suicide?”

Murphy sighed, prepared for the inevitable third degree. “Because the dose she took was far too fucking big to be an accidental overdose, at least in the coroner’s opinion. She took a speedball that could have killed three average sized men - and this girl was five three and ninety eight pounds. I have to admit, that makes it seem deliberate.”

Roan was surprised, mainly because he didn’t think anyone combined heroin and cocaine anymore. “What sense does that make, Murph? She was taken off the street by men and found dead hours later of a suicide? She was in the bay, for Christ’s sake! Did she decide she wanted to overdose by the fishes?”

“It’s possible she o.d.’d elsewhere and was dumped by panicky friends, which is technically a crime, but not one usually pursued. And really, we have no evidence she was taken off the street by anyone.”

This was un-fucking-believable. “Yes you do! I have a witness who saw it.”

“A witness who is dead, and never got to make an official statement. All we have is you reporting what he told you.”

He huffed an angry sigh through his nose. “And my word isn’t good enough. Thanks, Murph; thanks a lot.”

“Don’t be that way. If you can bring me some actionable proof of anything …”

“What about my witness getting murdered just before he made a statement? That doesn’t strike you as suspicious?”

He could hear her tapping a pen on her desk impatiently, and he knew he was trying her patience, but fuck it. He was closing in on a good suspect here - well, okay, currently Paris was - and he didn’t need this right now. “The timing was really bad, I admit -”

“Really bad?!”

“- but we have a suspect in custody for that, and unless you can connect Parker Davis in some way to Thora Bishop …”

“Davis was set up! He’s an easy patsy!”

She sighed again, this time more sharply than ever. “You buy his lame excuse? We have an eyewitness who can place him at Panic picking up Eric before he was murdered.”

“Toby the bartender - I know, I brought him in.”

“So you don’t believe your own witness?”

He shot an evil glare at the phone, even though it was totally wasted. “You know I do. But I think we’re only getting half the story. Do you have any physical evidence tying Davis to the scene? Do you have a weapon?”

The pause was so great he knew she was glowering at her receiver now. “Not yet, but all the forensic tests aren’t in.”

“This is bullshit, Murph, and you know it. Eric’s murder was no coincidence. Thora could have been easily overpowered by any man and shot up with a speedball. Was there bruises on her body?”

“Of course there was; she was fairly discolored from being in the water. You know what the water does to a body.”

Sadly he did. Water could do amazingly awful things to corpses, which was probably why water was such a favorite dumping place for killers. “Why aren’t you investigating the bruises?”

“The coroner was unable to determine if she received them due to violence or because of medical problems.”

Roan collapsed back on the sofa and stared at the ceiling, where a sliver of sunlight cut across it like a spear. There were times he was so very glad he wasn’t actually a cop anymore, and this was one of them. “What medical problems? Do I assume her anorexia left her anemic or something?”

“You know that information -”

“Is the case closed?” he interrupted.

“Goddamn, you’re a rude bastard sometimes. Yes, the case is closed.”

“Fine, then it doesn’t matter if you tell me or not.”

She was silent for another moment, and he could feel the waves of hate coming down the open line. It was funny, but sometimes he and Murphy fought like a married couple, more than he and Paris did at any rate. Their fights were brief squalls, but when he and Dropkick locked horns, it was like a tsunami. “She was anemic, smart ass. She also had a small viral load in her bloodstream.”

“Viral load? What virus?”

She scoffed. “Oh wow, have I actually uncovered something you didn’t know? I should call the Guinness Book of World Records.”

“Can the sarcasm. What are we talking about? I assume the common cold’s right out.”

“She was infected. Newly infected, for what it’s worth. It hadn’t expressed itself yet; she hadn’t had enough built up.”

It was a good thing he was laying down, he thought. Because while he knew the room actually hadn’t shifted, it felt like it had. “She was infected? How long?”

“Well, it’s hard to tell exactly, but the coroner put it at approximately two weeks, give or take a couple of days on either side.”

Enough time to maybe inform one or two people, although clearly she hadn’t told Matt (probably because he was a bit of a motor mouth). Suddenly he wondered if he’d just found a new motive for murder.

Or even suicide.

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.”

“Really?”

“No, not really. I’m just making conversation.” She tried on a faint smile, but it quickly disappeared. Her face was long, almost ovate in shape, her jaw strong and her forehead wide, which she mostly hid with her long dark brown hair. And while her face seemed drawn, almost gaunt, her eyes were wide, expressive and haunted; it made her striking if not exactly beautiful. Her skin was pale, and Roan imagined she had an attractive olive complexion when she was healthy, but she was sick and it was obvious. She was wearing sweats that someone must have loaned her, the dark blue sweatshirt hanging on her like a burlap sack, and as she held her cigarette he noticed her hands were bony, the veins standing out like cables. “It does seem that the SWAT people are pissed at you, though.”

“They been grumping around here, huh?” She pushed her crumpled pack of cigarettes towards him, a tacit offer, and he shook his head. Cigarette smoke (or something in it, at least) was a migraine trigger for him actually, but he figured since he was on Vicodin he might get through this okay.

She nodded and seemed to study him a moment as she tapped some ash into a round ceramic ashtray that looked like it might have been stolen from someone’s rumpus room in the ‘70’s. “Are you gay?”

Oh, what were the SWAT guys calling him? Faggot? Butt pirate? Ass bandit? Fudge packer? Dick smoker? Cocksucking pansy ass? There were so many possibilities, and quite frankly, he had to know which one was their favorite. Also, it was always expedient to form a bond with a person you were questioning - if they thought of you as an equal, a peer, Human as opposed to a uniform, they talked a lot easier. “Yes. Why?”

“Because I’ve never met a straight man in real life with a nice looking chest,” she said, surprising him. He looked down, wondering if this shirt was tight enough to show off his muscle definition. It certainly didn’t feel tight, but looking at it now, he could make out his pecs fairly well. The shirt must have shrunk in the wash. “I mean, I’m not trying to stereotype, but that’s been my personal experience.”

“Don’t say that too loud, there’s some straight gym addicts around here that will object.”

She waved her hand dismissively, making a sour face. “They always get it wrong. My ex-husband, when he was going through his early mid-life crisis, started working out all the time. He was trying to impress some woman far too young for him. He had to stick with his prostitutes. He used to like this massage place near the airport. The … oh fuck, what was it called? Lotus Bloom?”

“The Lotus Room,” he corrected her. “It’s caused many a divorce. I should give them a kickback for all the cheating husbands I’ve photographed there.”

That made her smirk. “Must be a fun job.”

“Not really. It’s mostly really dull. I kind of wish this state would hurry up and legalize gay marriage, so I could photograph cheating gay guys. That might be a bit more fun.”

She chuckled, “You could probably sell the pictures on the internet too.”

“Yeah, recap some of my expenses.”

She tapped out another ash, and nervously scratched her thumb. “What did you do to the SWAT guys anyways? Some of them were hanging around outside the door for a bit. They didn’t know I was in here.”

“Trash talking me?”

“Yeah.”

He was kind of hoping he’d get more than that, but she was probably trying to be polite and spare his feelings. “I ordered them off. They take that personally from a civilian. Especially a limp wristed faggot civilian.”

She grimaced, trying not to laugh, but he could tell from the guilty look that flashed across her face the SWAT guys must have used at least one of those terms if not all of them. “They seem to think you’re arrogant.”

“I am. It’s a problem with us butt pirates.”

She finally did chuckle, taking a long drag. “I bet that’s what they don’t like.”

“Butt piracy?”

She laughed again, and lightly smacked his arm, which was resting on the flimsy table of the interrogation room. “Stop that! No, although I’m sure that has something to do with it too. I meant you don’t seem to be a shy, retiring type.”

“Oh god no. I’m a battle queen.”

She smiled, and it seemed genuine, but her face was so thin and raw boned it looked painful. “From the way they were talking about you, I expected a girly guy with a high voice and a skirt.”

“And I think they’d rather I was that way, as I’d make them question their own sexuality less. With all the macho bullshit around here, it’d be easier for them if I was a femme.”

“And you’re infected too.”

“I am. Lion strain.” He turned his arm over, showed her the Leo tattoo on his wrist.

She looked at it, her thin eyebrows raising in surprise. “Wow. You’re not shy about that either, are you?”

“I got over shy a really long time ago. I’m queer, I’m feline, get used to it.”

She grinned, stabbing out her cigarette in the ashtray. Her gums were so pale they were barely pink, while the enamel of her teeth was so worn away in some spots that the tips of her canine teeth were nearly translucent. The smoke had been almost strong enough to cover the faint but unmistakable sweet rot smell of cancer coming through her pores. “You’re fun. I like you. I’m sorry we couldn’t have met under better circumstances.”

He was wondering when she was going to get to that. He had no intention of rushing her, though, as one thing you learned quickly as an investigator was that most of your job could be done for you if you just sat down and listened. An astonishing number of people just wanted to talk; it didn’t matter if it was potentially damning or something they’d never told to anyone before. Sometimes they just needed an excuse to spill their guts. “They weren’t optimum, no.”

She picked up the cigarette pack and fiddled with it, so nervous she wanted to do something with her hands. “They said you were able to get us under control in cat form. I was wondering how you did that.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure how I do it. Cats seem to recognize me as some kind of alpha male, maybe because I smell really weird and they don’t know what to make of me; I smell half cat and half human to them. It’s turned out pretty handy, though.”

“I bet.”

There was a long enough pause that Roan knew she wasn’t going to keep talking, so now it was time to push. “I was wondering how you banded together to commit suicide by cop in cat form. I assume you worked this out in Human form first.”

She stared at him for a long moment, the conflict visible behind her eyes. Finally, she looked down at the cigarette pack, and asked, “How did you figure that out?”

He gave her credit for not even trying to lie. “You were all sick, all small, and there was no way in hell you could have done too much damage even banded together, because you were all so ill and weak. The only reason you could have been together was to scare people with your numbers, which would bring the cops and their guns. Tell me if I’m wrong.”

She shook her head, still looking down at the barren surface of the table. “You’re not. We’ve been living together at Katie’s late Aunt’s house, and since we’ve all been getting sick, we’re not even attacking each other in cat form anymore. What’s the point?”

The story came out in fits and spurts, but Roan already knew all seven of the cats were female, and all were sick. A couple of the women, including Carmen, had cancer, while most of the rest had immune system dysfunctions and the mysterious wasting disorder that seemed to be plaguing Paris. Most of their insurance had run out, if they even had insurance in the first place, and most of them were quite frankly tired of living. Since they were all ill and knew their time was running out, they hatched what was essentially a suicide pact. They picked an isolated area - the barn - where they’d be unlikely to do much damage before the cops were called, and where they could camp out before the change occurred, so they’d all be on the right spot.

“I appreciate that you planned this all meticulously, but still someone could have been seriously hurt or killed. I sympathize with your predicament, but this was irresponsible. You understand that, yes?”

She nodded, still not looking at him, her bony shoulders slumped in defeat. “It was stupid, but we really feel like we didn’t have anything to lose at this point. We’re corpses in all but name.”

He winced, because that was so harsh, because that was probably true, because Paris was almost there as well. He searched his pockets for a business card, found one, and found a pen as well. “You’ve heard of the New Horizons Center, yeah?”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Who hasn’t? But it’s nearly all touchy feely crap there. I’m not sure we want their kind of help. I don’t want to spend my last few weeks of life wasting away in a hospice run by well meaning but irritating strangers.”

“Call this number,” he said, as he scribbled the information on the back of the card. “I know someone there, and they may be able to help you and your friends in a manner more to your liking.”

He slid the card across to her, and with obvious reluctance she read it. He had written on it: This isn’t New Horizons. These are people who will help you no matter what path you choose followed by a phone number that had nothing to do with New Horizons. Thanks to Dee, he knew of some medical professionals who were willing to help people who were infected get certain meds that would help them end their life , if they so chose. It was all under the table, clandestine, and illegal as hell, but what was the point of watching people suffer and waste away in agony, waiting for a big aneurysm or massive organ failure to take them permanently out of the game? Yes, it was euthanasia, but Roan was a huge believer in choice. If you were an adult of sound mind and suffering a terminal illness, suicide should be a viable option on the table. Everybody had a limit, and he trusted most people to know what theirs was.

After reading it, Carmen seem to understand what he meant. She did her best to hide the surprise in her eyes, and quickly pocketed the card. “Okay, I’ll try it. When I can. Am I being charged?”

“With what, being uncontained? No. Considering your illness, I think the Chief’s willing to look the other way for you and the others, although they won’t be released until the expressed portion of the viral cycle is done.”

She nodded, seemingly relieved that they weren’t being arrested. “It was idiotic. We won’t do that again.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Is there someone you can call to pick you up?”

Carmen glanced up at him and grimaced slightly, turning it into a brief, pained smile. “No. All my friends are in the cat holding area, and my family’s in Florida.”

“Wow - the other side of the country.”

“Yeah. I’m sure it suited them that I got my diseased ass as far from them as possible.”

Oh, that kind of family. Lovely. “Well, if you’ll give me a couple of minutes, meet me out front and I’ll give you a lift home,” he told her, standing up.

That surprised her too, but this time she didn’t hide it. “Really?”

He shrugged. “Why not? I’m heading home anyways. I just need to talk with Gordo before he shoves my head through the wall.”

She gave him a faint, tight smile that made her face look nearly skeletal. “Can he do that? I thought you were a battle queen.”

He grinned at her and winked conspiratorially. “Oh, I gotta let him have a good shot now and again. You know how men’s egos are.”

He left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar, and as he walked down the narrow corridor to the area that homicide shared with kitty crimes, an unadorned door close to the interrogation room opened, and the statuesque form of Chief Matthews came out, following him quietly down the hall. So she was observing his chat with Carmen Serrano? He didn’t think it warranted the big guns.

He detoured into the small break room, and she followed. A cop he didn’t know was in there getting a cup of coffee, and he opened his mouth to say something, but as soon as he saw the Chief come in behind Roan, he grabbed his cup and scooted out of there. “I forgot how good you are with suspects,” the Chief said, opening the conversation.

“Certain suspects,” he countered, deciding to help himself to some diesel grade coffee. He could use the caffeine jolt. “The guys used to call it the freak parade. Do they still call it that?”

“Not around me,” she replied. She leaned against the nearest counter, crossing her arms over her chest.

“They used to say I was the majorette at the head of the freak parade, which is why I got on with them all so well. Coffee?”

“No thanks, I think I have a sufficient caffeine to blood ratio.” She barely paused before adding, “How would you feel about an honorary badge?”

He was dumping packet after packet of sugar into his coffee to make it palatable, and he glanced at her suspiciously. He had to look up just to do that; damn if she wasn’t one of the tallest women he had ever met. “I’m technically a “cat expert“, right? At least to the satisfaction of the lawyers down at city hall. Why would I want an honorary badge?”

“Because if I made you an honorary member of the cat squad, maybe Garcia and the rest of his SWAT boys wouldn’t give you as much shit. You’d technically not be a civilian.”

Ah, she was trying to be nice to him. That was kind of her, he supposed. “Actually, I beg to differ. I’d be a civilian with a useless badge. But they’d probably see me as the Chief’s pet, and wouldn’t give me shit around people who could make things hard for them.” He sipped the coffee in its paper cup. It tasted like very sweet oil, but he forced himself to talk a gulp anyways; caffeine was always good, as long as you could suppress your own gag reflex.

She arched a well shaped eyebrow at him, looking torn between being pissed at his candor and admiring it. “You know what notes McClarty made on you in his file ? “Mouthy” and “a pair of brass balls the size of Buicks”. It’s nice to see some things never change.”

“Look, I’m not trying to offend you. Honestly, I appreciate the gesture, and I should probably take you up on it, but it’s been a shitty night and I’m barely functioning. Is there any chance we can have this conversation at a later date?”

“Barely functioning? You cracked that woman like a bad walnut. And don’t let her fool you - she was as silent as a monk before you showed up. All she asked for was cigarettes and water. No one could get a conversation going with her.”

“Yeah, but you’re all cops, and you’re all clean. I’m not a cop, and I’m infected. I have more in common with her than any of you do .”

She shook her head in disbelief, smiling faintly. “Unbelievable. I should call Sikorski in here. Has he ever seen you being humble before?”

“Very funny, Chief.” He took a couple deep gulps of the coffee, but it was all he could stand, so he poured the rest down the sink and balled up the cup before tossing it in the garbage can tucked away in the far corner. “Look, I really am tired. I’ve been working on a case that just took a couple of turns for the worse. I don’t think I have room in my head for this right now. Also, I fucked up when I had a real badge - I’m not sure I’d even trust me with a fake one.”

“You’re a hell of an investigator, Roan. Suicide by cop? Shit, that never even occurred to me. I didn’t even know cats were capable of grouping, even if sick.”

“Well, there is precedent for it, at least among feral female housecats. It’s not unknown for females, especially with kittens, to form a kind of pride, a collective group entity, as there’s greater safety in a pack.” Which was true enough, although it felt odd drawing a through line between cougars and wild housecats. Still, they were all feline, so at least they were in the same general family.

The Chief was eying him with barely suppressed amusement. “Only females, huh?”

“Yeah. You know us men - we’re too macho to ever admit we need help.” Suddenly he remembered that that was pretty much what Dee accused him of earlier today. Oh, irony. He could just imagine Dee shaking his head and rolling his eyes at his general obtuseness.

Roan had turned to go back out, as he really did have to say something to Gordo before he left, when the Chief asked a question he wished she hadn’t. “How’s Paris?”

After being with the sick, dying Carmen in that little hotbox, that question was like a taser to the spine. He could all too easily imagine Paris that ill and that defeated; he was already so very close. He was glad he was facing away from her, because for a moment he thought he might actually get teary eyed, but he managed to hold it back. God, he was so fucking tired. What time was it, anyways? “He’s maintaining,” he replied vaguely, not certain if that was a lie or not.

“How are you?” She asked, and then added, as if aware that might be too personal a question, “If there’s anything we can do to help, let me know. You did used to be one of us. We don’t leave men behind.”

“I thought that was the Marines, not cops.”

“Supposedly I’m a Marine drill sergeant. Ask the boys out front if you don’t believe me.”

“Eh, they’re a bunch of pussies,” he said dismissively, and at least as he fled the room, he left her laughing.

The Chief wasn’t alone in the observation room it seemed, as when he reached Seb’s and Gordo’s put together desks, they were both a bit stunned that the whole set up had been an attempted suicide by cop. Gordo was surprised enough that he forgot to be angry at him, so he decided to take that victory and move on.

Carmen was waiting outside for him, smoking another cigarette and shivering in the cold. She was kind enough to put out her cigarette before getting in the car. She lived on the South side of town, a little out of his way, but nothing that bothered him much. He cranked the heater in the GTO, even though he found it uncomfortable, because it seemed to stop her shivering.

When he dropped her off, she gave him a long hug and thanked him. He really didn’t know why, he hadn’t done much for her at all, but he hugged her back and wished her luck. Maybe she just needed the hug, just like she needed to talk to someone who could understand what desperation really looked like.

It was moments like this when he couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of the uninfected. They would never know this feeling; they would never look at themselves in the mirror and wonder if they could survive the punishment of existence one more day.

And now he was wondering if it wouldn’t have been much more humane in the long run if he had just stepped aside and let the SWAT team do their job.