Rain pounded on the roof, and Trey shivered from cold as the water dripped off his chin from his soaked navy blue hoodie and landed with a soft plop on the wet legs of his jeans, but he never stopped glaring evilly at him. “I’m not gonna let you do it,” Trey sneered, his voice sounding odd as he tried to still his chattering teeth.

“Do what?” Roan kept his voice low and even, like they taught all cops to do when dealing with hysterical or unstable people. Always sound like you were unaffected and in control; getting them to believe it was all you needed to do.

“You know damn well, you fucking faggot! I’m not gonna let you frame me!”

“Frame you?” Holy shit, did he have a paranoia disorder? That might explain some of the violent tendencies. “Trey, why would I frame you?”

“Because you’re a fucking freak,” he spat, with a surprising amount of venom.

Roan pondered this. Was Trey projecting - did he assume he’d do such a thing because Trey himself would do such a thing? Or had a gay man once screwed him over royal, and not in a good way? Or did he have a persecution complex - did he assume everyone would make him a victim if given a chance? “I’ve already cleared you from the suspect list. Your alibi checked.”

“What?”

“You’ve been cleared, Trey. This is a pointless display.”

He stared at him for a very long moment, the rain the only sound. Trey’s look was cold and belligerently hateful. “You’re full of shit.”

“No, I’m not. Why do you think I’m here? I was questioning Jay Bishop.”

There was something slightly unfocused about Trey’s eyes, and although it was difficult to smell over damp cloth, flop sweat, and too much aftershave, there was a fermented alcohol scent about him. It was faint, though, odd - vodka? Maybe Thora wasn’t the only one who drank Aqueducts. “You could be workin’ with him.”

That got a genuine laugh out of him. “Oh yeah, he and I, we’re really tight. Ask him.”

“I bet you are.”

“If you get out of my car now, I won’t tell the cops. I’ll forget this ever happened. Just get out and walk.”

He snorted and waved the gun barrel. “I’ve got the fucking gun, asshole. I give the orders.”

“I really don’t think that falling back on American foreign policy is helpful at this moment.”

“What?”

Okay, so Trey wasn’t down with the jokes. Many crazed gunmen weren’t. It was like sense of humor was the first thing to go out the window, followed by sense and restraint. Roan sighed, and tried hard not to roll his eyes as he looked at Trey, shivering in his wet clothes, although his gun hand was admirably steady. “What exactly is it you want from me?”

That question shouldn’t have confused him, but somehow it did. He was a man of impulse, one who didn’t think things through, one who simply acted. That was really catching up with him now. He came to a decision, his gun never wavering from its chosen target. “I want you to knock it the fuck off. I didn’t kill Thora. I’m not a faggot.”

Roan shook his head, feeling pity for this train wreck of a Human being. “What does sexual orientation have to do with anything?”

“I don’t want you or your fucking whore of a boyfriend telling people I am. ‘Cause I’m not!”

“Fine, you’re not gay. Now get the hell out of my car.”

It happened so fast that Roan saw it coming, but was so surprised by its suddenness that even his inhuman reflexes didn’t jump to intercept it. Trey smashed the butt of his gun into his face, so hard that Roan heard a crack of bone and felt a hot, angry surge of pain in his cheekbone. “You don’t talk that way to me!” Trey was shouting, as he raised the butt of the Glock to bludgeon him once more. “Nobody talks to me that way!”

Trey picked the worst time and way to freak out. He’d just done a partial transformation up in Jay’s office, and the lion was still very close to the surface. Close enough that the sudden pain sent it out, and Roan found himself scrambling to hold it back. On the inside.

On the outside, Roan snarled and grabbed the wrist of Trey’s gun hand as he grabbed his throat with his other hand and slammed Trey’s head back so hard against the passenger window that there was a clunk deep inside the door, something breaking. Trey’s eyes bulged until they looked like they might fall out of their sockets, and the stink of sudden fear was like vinegar as Roan heard himself growl, “You do not touch me. “ The words didn’t sound like they were made by a Human - it was a gravelly sound, painful, a growl roughly modulated into approximating Human voice. He felt his lips skin back over teeth that were shifting in his mouth with a familiar creak of his jawbone, making the pain in his already broken cheekbone flare anew, like acid burning beneath his skin. He literally saw red as his vision flattened out, and Trey came into sharp relief. Trey’s fear suddenly didn’t smell quite so repulsive to him, and he started fixating on a throbbing vein in his neck as he squeezed it, his fingernails digging crescents into his flesh. Trey tried desperately to pry his hand off his throat, but Roan was too strong.

Trey’s mouth opened and closed, like he was trying to say something, but nothing came out but a rusty squeak. His face was flushing dark as he struggled to catch a breath and was unable to, and Roan was dimly aware he was strangling him, that he didn’t have claws, although the muscles in his fingers were jumping, feeling like they were trying to trigger the change.

It was almost impossible to will it back, his face was throbbing like an open wound and his nerves were already frayed, but he managed to somehow do it, easing up on his chokehold and making himself stop growling. His throat ached, although not as much as his face. “You should have never hit me,” he grumbled, his voice still raspy. “Pain brings it out.”

Trey was gasping in breaths like a drowning man finally dragged to shore, and he had to fight to find his voice. “You’re … you’re a monster …”

“No, I’m a lion. And if you just stopped being a fucking mental case you’d never have had to find out.” He looked to see what had happened to Trey’s gun, and found it resting on his side of the dashboard. He didn’t remember throwing it there. He grabbed the Glock and with practiced ease pulled out the ammo clip and put the safety back on.

Trey continued staring at him like he was a gelatinous alien that just oozed out of a meteor crater in his garden, blindly groping for the door handle behind him. Roan glared at him. “You get out when I say you get out, or I drag you back in here. You won’t like it if I have to drag you back in here.”

Trey suddenly stopped reaching for the handle, and sat with the quiet wariness of a man who knows he’s going to die and doesn’t like it, but knows he can’t fight it. He may have pissed himself, but it was impossible for Roan to tell if that was what he was smelling, or if the smell of his fear had simply soured as he pulled the lion back. His face was aching even more now.

“Are you going to kill me?” Trey asked, in a small, raspy voice. He seemed oddly sober now, and was shivering twice as hard as before.

Roan snorted. “No, I’m not you. You need help, Trey; I mean serious psychiatric help. What the fuck is your damage?”

“I don’t … I’m not …”

“That was a rhetorical question,” he snapped, an inadvertent growl punctuating the last syllable. He was still angry, still in pain, his nerves frayed like old wires, and the lion continued lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to come out again. He knew he couldn’t actually feel it pacing, and yet he still thought he could. “Did you have anything to do with Thora’s death? Tell me now - if you’re lying, I’ll know.”

“No. I told you no. I’m not lying.”

Roan nodded. He wasn’t. “Do you have any idea who might want to? Anyone in the group who may have had a grudge?”

Trey was quiet for a long time, but in a strangely thoughtful way. Roan couldn’t quite believe it, but that one moment of physical violence had broken him. No, scratch that - not the violence; Trey probably thrived on violence. It was what he saw in his face, the distortion in his jaw and eyes, the strength in the hand that nearly crushed his throat, that rendered Trey obedient. He understood that he had finally come up against a more unstable creature than himself … which really didn’t make Roan feel all that good. Yaay him, he won the violent bastard sweepstakes.

Finally, Trey said, “Thora and Danae never got along. And then there was that thing with Gavin.”

Here was a new name. “Gavin?”

“Gavin Lorimer. He had a thing with Danae before Willow Springs, and then at the end, he hooked up Thora. I don’t think that lasted, though.”

Roan thought hard, and recalled a G. mentioned in Thora’s rehab memoir - right, he was the “Pauly Shore for the ‘00’s”. That must have been Gavin. “A himbo?” he asked, just for confirmation.

Trey nodded meekly. “Big time. Cute, but kinda … vacant.”

He could have ran his name, found all the info in a few seconds, but with a compliant Trey here, why bother? “Do you know where Gavin lives?”

He shrugged. “Somewhere in the Hillfield district.”

“Hillfield?” That was odd. It was downtown and not all that ritzy or exclusive - you’d think a himbo would live somewhere nicer. Hillfield was about a mile away from Panic. Coincidence? (Yeah, probably.)

“I know. His mom wanted him to live on his own or something, stand on his own two feet for a while. I think Gavin and his step-father fought a lot.”

“Does he work?”

“Gavin? I don’t know. I kinda doubt it. Unless you can drink and mooch as a career.” Trey sounded disdainful, suggesting that, while he clearly had an anger and sexual identity problem, he at least had a solid work ethic.

“So he’s a trust fund brat?”

“Or living off his mother still, just not living with her.”

Roan nodded, not at all surprised. His face still throbbed and burned, but a little less than before. He was accustomed to having his bones broken thanks to his infected status, and he was pretty sure he’d be healed soon enough since he just went through another partial change. The bruise might stay, though, and he wondered what he was going to tell Paris about it. “Do you know why Thora and Gavin broke up?”

“No. So, um, you’re infected?”

“I’m a virus child, yeah.”

“What about, um …”

“Yes, he’s infected too. Tiger strain.”

“What? Oh my god. He didn’t look - “ Roan shot him a sidelong glance, and Trey cringed ever so slightly. “- not that you do. Not until your, uh, jaw distends …”

“Save it. I don’t give a shit what you think about me.”

He nodded, and almost seemed relieved. “Okay then.” Trey rubbed his throat then, as if it hurt. Roan could see the discoloration in the shape of his hand on his throat, and then there were the tiny marks of his fingernails. Some of them looked to be leaking blood, but since rainwater was still drizzling down Trey’s neck, he honestly couldn’t tell. He really had wanted to rip his fucking jugular out. The lion still thought he should just rip it out with his teeth. It didn’t like getting hurt.

“Where does Danae live?”

Trey shook his head. “I think her family has a mansion in Southwick, but as far as I know, she left for France after rehab and hasn’t been back.”

“Why France?”

“They have a home there.”

Roan sighed. “The rich really are different. So she and Thora didn’t get along, huh? Any reason?”

He shrugged again. “They both thought that each other was a rich bitch.”

That was probably enough. Lifelong feuds had been started over less.

They sat for a long minute of silence, letting the percussive sound of rain on metal fill the void. Trey shot him several anxious glances before saying, in a small voice, “I guess I’m not going to get my gun back.”

He chuckled. “Oh fuck no.”

Trey shifted nervously in his seat, and really looked like he wanted to bolt, but didn’t dare. Which was good, but also proved how broken he was. Roan wondered once again what he looked like when he partially transformed. Sure, Gordo gave him a partial description, but frankly, for a cop, it was a piss poor one. Then again, he was probably terribly freaked out at the time. And part of Roan really didn’t want to know what he looked like when he was mostly Human, but slightly not. He thought if he saw himself that way, he might not ever go out in public again.

“What are you gonna do with me?” Trey wondered.

“I was thinking of burying you in a shallow grave.” He glanced at him, and noticed Trey’s shoulders sag. Roan scowled at him. “Oh give me a fucking break. I already said I wasn’t gonna kill you.”

“So what now?”

”I’m thinking.” And he did, but there just weren’t many options, were there? If he did try and run them down last night - and after this, he suspected that Trey was the guilty party - he would be arrested in a short amount of time. He could have added charges to that roster, but for some reason he was no longer interested. Again, he thought Trey was pathetic. He was a sad, damaged little man who could’ve really hurt someone - they were probably all lucky that Trey picked on him. (The way his cheek was aching, though, he didn’t feel lucky.) “You have a choice. You turn yourself into the police now, or you go check yourself into a mental hospital until you can figure out what’s behind all these psychotic outbursts of yours.”

Trey stiffened, his expression darkening. “I’m not crazy.”

“No, you’re not. You just can’t control your anger, and you hate yourself so much you can’t stand it. It must be painful to be in your skin.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you mean.” The anger was creeping back into his voice, but in a minor way. He was still holding back, still frightened of bringing the beast out once more. Trey still loathed him, but he knew in a straight fight he couldn’t win, and wrestling the gun out of his possession was not advised. He might have also been afraid of getting infected himself, even though he could hardly get the virus from him by being scratched or bit, even if he was in lion form. (It was blood or semen or nothing - and he had no intention of fucking him or bleeding all over him.)

“Yeah, Trey, you do. Tell me, do you belong to a family that openly reviles gays? Your parents religious?”

He looked out the passenger window, lips so thin and pale they were hardly a seam in his face. “Baptist.”

“Oh holy fucking Christ, that explains everything. Go now, check yourself into a mental hospital, and try and figure out if going through life loathing yourself and every man who turns you on is worth whatever inheritance you could get from your family. Ask yourself if annihilating all sense of self is worth taking a family job that you don’t want. You’re fucking miserable, Trey - it’s obvious to everyone. You’re a hard worker; you don’t need whatever your family can give you.”

Trey looked at him, eyes narrowing in contempt. “Oh yeah - who needs respect? Who needs to be a productive member of society? Who needs a family?”

“You can make your own family. You don’t need one that won’t accept you.”

His glare was caustic. “You get one family in life - one. The rest is bullshit.”

“Better a fake family than one who can’t accept you, that would hate you if you ever bothered to tell the truth.”

“Just what I’d expect from a faggot. Can I go now?”

He made a show of thinking about it, scrutinizing him in an unfriendly way. “Where are you going?”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Roseland. Is that acceptable to you?”

Roseland was a mental health facility. He wasn’t sure that Trey would actually go there, but right now he didn’t care. He was probably an hour or two away from arrest anyways. “Yeah, fine. And if I ever see your face again, I’ll smash it flat.”

Trey continued to give him an evil look, but he scrambled rather hastily out of the car, slamming the door after him and disappearing into the rainy grey parking lot. Roan pulled out his cell phone and called Matt, just to ask if Thora and Gavin had dated, and what broke them up. Matt confirmed that they had “hooked up”, but he wouldn’t call it a proper relationship. He didn’t know why they broke up, except she told Matt on the phone that he was a complete fucking bastard. The problem was she said that about all her boyfriends, and Matt could sympathize, since he inevitably said that about his boyfriends as well. The one thing that united gay men and straight women was a common enemy.

Matt did have some information about Gavin that Trey either didn’t have or didn’t volunteer. He had a favorite hang out, an upscale lounge inside the extremely expensive, pretentious restaurant Paradiso. A relative of Gavin’s was co-owner of the joint, so he had his own barstool and a running tab. Roan was slightly jealous - he never had a tab anywhere. He was a private detective too; wasn’t the stereotype that they had tabs at dingy bars and loose women in every port? (What he’d do with the loose women he had no idea, but it was the principal of the thing.)

He checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, and saw no hint of the cat that was still itching to come out, but he did see a bruise underneath his left eye, reddish and slowly turning purplish-black, swelling and slightly puffy. It was in a rough, slender ovoid shape, the butt of the gun distorted slightly. The bruise would heal faster for him than it would for anyone else, but it would still be around for a day or three. What a pisser. He touched the bruise at the edges, wincing at the dull but intense pain that coaxed from it, but figured his bone had probably healed already or was healed enough to make the break negligible. That was the one thing his lion was good for. Well, that and pants wetting scary homicidal surges of rage. Animals had no modulation of emotions - when they were angry, things got torn to pieces. He hoped Trey knew how lucky he was, but somehow he doubted it.

A quick search turned up Gavin’s address, and it didn’t take long for him to drive there. Gavin lived in an apartment complex that was shaped like a bunker - low (five stories tops) and excessively square, with even rectangular windows set at rigid intervals, it was probably once white but was now the color of dirty cotton. It had all the outward charm of an industrial school, and the entire area looked worn down and depressed. Why would the Pauly Shore of the ‘00’s be living here?

You had to buzz people to be let in the building, which was no problem at all (you just buzzed randomly until someone let you in), but Gavin either wasn’t home or didn’t answer his buzzer. Roan decided to work his way down to Paradiso, to see if Gavin was drinking his afternoon away.

It took him a while to get into Paradiso. The place was so fucking snobby that even though he just wanted to see if his “friend” was in the bar, they wouldn’t let him in because he wasn’t dressed properly, and he suspected that the fresh bruise on his face additionally alarmed the maitre’d. He looked like a lowlife, and therefore he wasn’t their type of customer. Finally they let him peek in, with heavy chaperoning, and he didn’t see Gavin. (Matt had emailed him a picture - Gavin resembled a young Jeff Bridges, crossed with a traditional California surfer boy.) He decided to check in later, but maybe he’d bring Paris with him to schmooze the maitre’d. He wasn’t sure if the guy was gay or not (although he did have a bit of a lisp), but Paris was just so damn pretty that he would fit in to such a posh place with ease. Unlike him, who - if the maitre’d’s withering glance could be taken as solid fact - would be more at home in a soup kitchen, or perhaps a trailer park.

He checked his messages, and Doctor Rosenberg had called. He erased her message without listening to it, as he really didn’t care what she had to say - if Paris wasn’t going to be included in the trials, he had no interest in them. He had a time share worked out with the cat; he really didn’t care about finding a chemical solution to it.

He headed home, mainly so he could put an ice pack on his bruise and see if he could bring the swelling down before he had to go back to Paradiso. He wasn’t sure what he was going to tell Paris about it, but what was wrong with the truth? A minor pistol whipping. Yeah, he let Trey walk, but he’d probably be in a holding cell before nightfall, so he didn’t care. Maybe also he was a little embarrassed at how close he came to totally losing it and lioning out on the asshole. He pulled it back, but he’d really wanted to rip Trey’s throat out.

Roan faintly heard the stereo outside the house - he had A Perfect Circle on now - but it wasn’t too loud, so he was a little surprised that Par didn’t answer when he knocked on the locked door. But it was possible he was upstairs, so he didn’t let it bother him, and dug out his keys to let himself in. “Hey honey, I’m homo,” he shouted, quoting a Pansy Division song. Well, he thought it was funny.

There was no reply, and he thought maybe he’d gone to take a nap - Par was sleeping a lot lately - and he’d be able to escape the conversation about his bruise until later. But once he walked into the living room, he saw, on the far side of the couch, a can of Pepsi on the carpet, sitting in a dark brown puddle of soda, most of which had already soaked in. Since when would Paris drop a can of soda and just leave it there?

His gut tightened, and he felt a sickening dread as he went around the couch and saw why Paris hadn’t bothered to clean up the spill.

Paris was sprawled face down on the floor.