Ignoring the prickle at the back of his neck, the sense of premonition regarding what he’d seen in Cottage One, Frank peered into the box as Neil sorted through the contents. The pipe and bong had a grimy and suspect appearance. They were also familiar, as was the box. The bags of weed and powder couldn’t possibly be as old as the paraphernalia, though.
Tom was regarding the box with an expression close to shock that quickly faded as apparent anger surged to the fore, coloring his cheeks a darker shade of tan. “I had no idea this was here.”
“This could be an issue with you lecturing the kids and all,” Neil said.
Neil thought the drugs were Tom’s? And what was this about lectures? “Tom?”
Tom made an irritated gesture. “I’ve talked to the students at the high school about what addiction looks like.” He glared at Neil. “What are you implying?”
“That box doesn’t belong to Tom,” Frank said. “It’s my brother’s. The box and the pipes are about forty years old, Neil. The drugs might be new, but someone found Matty’s box and is putting it to use.” And it wasn’t Tom. He could be a moody bastard, but knowing his history gave Frank all the more reason to believe Tom would never touch the stuff in the box.
Beside him, Tom deflated a little, though his face remained flushed.
“Seems pretty convenient to me,” Neil drawled. “Might have to get the state police in on this one.”
“For a couple baggies?” Tom just sounded disgusted now. “C’mon, Neil, it’s not mine—and even if it was, I wouldn’t be running around the woods at night with it.” He looked up, focusing on the distant line of trees, then frowned in Frank’s direction. “I think we’ve definitely got some kids sneaking around here, though.”
“Place looks abandoned enough,” Frank agreed.
“I’m gonna take this in,” Neil said, hefting the box. “Start an investigation. Either of you got plans to leave town? I might have to call you in for questioning.”
Was he serious?
The idea of being in an interrogation room with Neil wasn’t simply annoying, but disturbing. Did he still suck his Twizzlers? An absurd image flittered across Frank’s thoughts—Neil leaning a hip against the table in an interrogation room, busily shoving a Twizzler in and out of his mouth, and Frank loudly admitting to everything just to get him to stop. Frank quickly pressed his lips together over the ridiculous smile that wanted to take over his mouth. So not the time. Besides, he had other concerns—such as all the boxes stacked inside Cottage One.
Frank pulled his wallet from his pocket and extracted a business card. “Here. I can be reached on this number. I’ll be sure to remain in the country until you close your investigation.”
Neil took the card. Then he narrowed his eyes at Tom. “And I always know where to find you.”
Tom answered with a weak smile and, “Want to poke around some more? Might find a container of coke or something in the cellar.”
“Don’t be coy with me, Benjamin.”
“You don’t really think that box is mine?”
Neil moved pursed lips back and forth, looking like a Mr. Potato Head with a wonky mouth, before letting go a sigh. “Probably not. Just don’t go anywhere, all right?”
“If it is kids, you’re not going to find them,” Tom said. “They’ll come looking for their stash and when it’s gone, they’ll disappear.”
“Maybe I could stake out—”
Frank tapped the business card in Neil’s hand. “Call me and I’ll give you the number of my lawyer.” It was becoming increasingly obvious why Neil was still a small-town cop with no apparent rank—not to consider the Stroud Township Police Department unkindly.
“I’ll do that,” Neil said, pocketing the card.
Then, thankfully, he took the tackle box and left the premises.
After watching the taillights disappear down the drive, Frank turned and started back toward the cottages at a determined pace.
Tom caught up with him a few seconds later, falling into step. “I’m going to see what else is in Cottage Two,” he said. “Clean it up and figure out how they were getting in. The lock wasn’t touched. Might serve to change the locks on both doors anyway. Not quite sure what we can do about security out back, though—”
“What about all the boxes in Cottage One?” Frank asked.
Tom looked up, cheeks aflame once more. “Storage.”
“Uh-huh.” Lengthening his stride, Frank pulled ahead. He could hear Tom practically scrambling to keep up, and in other circumstances, might have laughed at the game. It wasn’t a game, though. He wanted to know why there were three not-so-neat stacks of boxes in the first cottage.
He pushed through the door and into the middle of the almost empty cottage. A lone chair nestled in one corner, a rolled-up sleeping bag tucked into one side, a yoga mat poking out of the other. Farther down on that side, the closet doors stood half-folded like a broken fan. Frank moved past the boxes, peered into the closet, at the neat row of hanging polo shirts, and closed his eyes.
Tom stepped quietly to his side. “I can explain.”
Frank shook his head—not because he didn’t want to hear Tom’s explanation. More to clear thoughts he didn’t want to acknowledge. Why now? He’d asked himself that question repeatedly over the past couple of weeks. Why, after thirty years of silence, was Tom willing to be with him now? He touched two fingers to his nose, squeezing the bridge carefully between, feeling for the knot Tom had left there that night.
His sinuses burned.
He didn’t want to believe that all Tom had wanted from him was somewhere to live, but the evidence almost shouted into the silence battering his ears. And if there was one thing Frank hated—well, a thing—it was being made to feel a fool.
“Frank?”
“Do you actually have a place in town?” Frank jerked his chin toward the chair as he asked. There was no obvious outline for the mat and sleeping bag on the floor, and of course there wasn’t. He’d had Tom with him every night for the past few days. Where had he slept before that? Not here, unless he’d gone to all the trouble of sneaking his car out before dawn only to arrive back as the sun rose. He turned around. “Where did you sleep last week?”
Tom’s hands formed a complicated knot in front of his stomach. “In my car.”
“In your car!”
Flinching, Tom stepped backward.
“What the actual fuck, Tom?”
Tom pulled his hands apart and squared his shoulders. “I had to give my place up to pay for Mom’s care at Mountain Manor.”
“But you’re busy nearly every weekend. And Robert was paying you as well.”
“Was. I haven’t been paid since two weeks before he died.”
“What?”
Tom started patting his pockets, then interlaced his fingers again. “Look, it doesn’t matter, does it? I don’t work here anymore, not really. My job died with Robert.” He took another step back and turned toward the door. “I’ll start loading up my car. Call Gerry or something. I can get my stuff out—”
With one stride, Frank was beside him, grabbing his shoulder. “I don’t want you to leave.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want you to tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m homeless, Frank! I’m a bum who can’t support himself, let alone his mother.” With each shouted word, Tom seemed to break a little, his shoulder becoming less and less steady beneath Frank’s hand. He was trembling, Frank realized.
“How long?” he asked.
Tom shook his head.
“How long, Tom?”
“Just let me go. Please. I’ll go.”
“Why do you want to go? Where will you go? God, where do you even sleep when you’re in your car? Did you do that while Robert was alive?”
Another head shake.
“Did Robert know?”
More sorry side-to-side action.
“Talk to me, Tom. Please. Help me understand what’s happening here.” Tell me it’s not what it looks like.
Tom had never been the mercenary type. The idea that he might be now didn’t mesh with the man who lectured at schools, took pictures of kids and weddings, and maintained a website of soulful photography that practically sold itself. The man mortgaging his happiness against his mother’s future.
Tom couldn’t hear his thoughts, though, and whatever Frank’s face said obviously spelled out something else entirely, because Tom kept shaking his head and backing away, his shoulder slipping from beneath Frank’s grasp.
Frank’s pocket buzzed. Ignoring his phone, he started after Tom who wasn’t running, but walking quickly toward the garage.
“Tom, wait. We have to talk about this.”
Frank’s phone kept ringing.
Tom kept walking.
Frank pulled out his phone, ready to tell Lucas that whatever it was, it had to wait. A glance at the screen showed Simon’s brooding face. He swiped Accept and raised the phone to his ear. “Now’s not really a good time. Can I call you back?”
“Liv had her baby.”
Frank stopped walking. “What?”
“The baby. It’s a girl, Frank. A little girl.”
“Ah, congratulations?”
“Can you not be an ass for five seconds and celebrate this miracle with me?”
“I’ll celebrate with you tomorrow. Or maybe later this afternoon, after I finish collaring Tom.”
“Uh-oh.”
“He . . . It’s too much to tell you right now, but . . . Fuck it.” Tom had disappeared inside the garage, and Frank could hear his car starting up. “Goddamn it.” He started running.
“What happened?”
“He’s homeless, Simon. He’s been living . . . God, I don’t know where. On the sofa in the office. On the floor in one of the cottages. He’s been sleeping in the back seat of his car for the past two weeks because I was here and he didn’t want me to know!” The shock of it finally hit, piercing Frank’s chest with a jagged spear.
Panting, he crossed the garage floor in time to see Tom’s car turn out of the side drive.
How had he not known what was going on? He was a journalist, for Christ’s sake. He was supposed to notice details—like how often Tom turned up wearing the same clothes as the day before. The fact he always seemed to need a shower when he got to the lodge. The Mello fucking Yello supply in the kitchen.
Though, he could have had another stash at his place of residence.
Except he didn’t.
Just how much did the care for his mother cost and . . .
“Shit.”
“What?” Simon asked.
“He hasn’t been paid in nearly two months. I . . . God. Why didn’t he ask me for a check?”
“Would you have, in his position?”
“No.” Of course he wouldn’t have—because they’d let this damn wound fester for way too long. Frank massaged his chest. His poor heart. “What’s her name?”
“What?”
“Liv’s baby. I assume mother and daughter are well?”
Simon laughed, and even through the phone, his emotional state was clear. This was a big moment for him—and Frank had nearly ruined it. “Liv named her Meredith, and they’re both well.”
Frank let a smile creep across his mouth—the barest lift of his lips, but an easing of the pain in his chest nonetheless. “Give her my best, will you? I’m . . . Thanks for calling and telling me.”
“You’re welcome. Now go sort things out with Tom.”
Frank massaged his forehead. “I don’t know if that’s possible.”
“You’re the one who schooled me in the art of grand gestures.”
“Charlie wasn’t homeless and lying about it.”
“It’s a different situation, but the same solution should still apply.”
“That’s the thing, Simon. It’s really not that different.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is exactly what happened thirty years ago.”
“He hit you?”
“No. No.” The second no was much quieter than the first and the cell phone felt heavy in Frank’s hand. “He doesn’t trust me, Simon.” Quieter still, “He never did.”