No, I tell myself.That would be crazy.
I pull back the covers, but then I stop.
What if it’s not crazy?What if something happened?I’m a police officer, so my mind jumps to the reality of what happens at places like WISP.It’s not only the people who need help who show up.It’s not only people like Lexi.Sometimes, it’s the people they’re trying to get away from.Sometimes, it’s Charles.And this late at night, who would still be at WISP?Gray.Maybe Robin.It would be the two of them, all by themselves, if somebody showed up, somebody looking for trouble.Maybe just Gray.
I went back and forth about it for almost a minute.And then I gave up.As I flopped onto the bed, I texted:Sorry, not trying to bother you, but wanted to make sure you got home okay.
And still nothing.
I close my eyes against the overhead light, but I’m not trying to go to sleep.Not everybody’s the same, but a lot of police, if they’re on the job long enough, get a sense for when something’s not right.It might not even be something you can point to, something you can say made you suspicious or worried or afraid.You can just tell.
Against my closed eyelids, the ceiling light makes a red-orange ball.
I launch out of bed, throw on my staples: shirt, shorts.I don’t even bother with socks—I shove my feet into my Adidas, grab my keys and wallet, and run for the car.
13
Sam
When I get to campus, it’s after midnight and everything’s dark except the security lights.I’m alone as I cross the quad, but the way my sneakers scuff the sidewalk makes it sound like someone’s following me.
The building where WISP is housed is dark too, and when I try the door, it’s locked.On the other side of the glass, a lone security light illuminates a stretch of worn vinyl flooring, and the rest of the building disappears into shadows.No sign anything bad happened.No sign anybody’s even still there.The whole thing was all in my head, as usual.The night’s cold enough that I shiver as I hop down the steps to head back to the car.At least Gray doesn’t know I freaked out and drove over here for no reason.
As I start back the way I came, though, a sound reaches me.It’s someone breathing.A slow exhalation that I associate with smokers.Or somebody hitting a vape.I wait, and after a minute, the sound comes again.I move down the sidewalk, following a line of decorative hedges planted along the façade of the building, following the sound of those slow breaths.
If I weren’t looking for him, I could have walked right past and never seen him.At night, the little opening in the hedge is only another shadow, and the stone bench tucked inside it is a pale glimmer.He’s mostly shadow too until he hits his vape again, and then the LED lights flare, casting a blue glow across his face.It only lasts a moment, but when you’re training to be a detective, you have to learn to take in details fast: red eyes, slack expression.He must see me, but it’s like he’s looking through me.Or like he’snotseeing me, although I don’t know how that’s possible.The cop in me says, Intoxicated.
“Gray?”
The LED light dims.He exhales again, and the candy scent of the vape rolls over me.
I move into the little opening.Standing over him seems way too confrontational, so I sit.There’s not enough room, so I’ve got half a cheek hanging out over empty air, and our knees bump.He doesn’t turn to look at me.He doesn’t say anything.After a few long seconds, he hits his vape again.The little light almost seems too bright in this pocket of darkness, and the angle is just right so I can see the scars.One of them goes straight through his eyebrow.
“Hey,” I say.
Gray takes this long, tired breath.After a few seconds, he finally says, “Hey, Sammy.What are you doing here?”
“I was worried about you.”I don’t mean to say it, but there it is, and anyway, Gran always says honesty is the best policy.“What’s wrong?What happened?”
He shakes his head.In the dark, it’s barely more than a hint of movement.
The cold seems worse back here.Goose bumps are crawling up my arms, and the air smells like that candy vape and the hedges and concrete that never gets any sunlight.
“Something at WISP?”I ask.
Nothing.
“Is it the donors?”I say.“Did they change their minds?”
“You know what?”Gray says, and he’s still talking in that awful, dead voice.“I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me alone right now.”
Nothing’s moving.Nothing in the whole world right then.No wind.Nothing scurrying through the brush.Nobody out on the lawn.
“Okay,” I say.But I don’t get up.And after a few seconds, I say, “Talking about it might help.”
He’s so tense.Like every inch of him got pushed as far as it can go without breaking.He’s hinged at the waist, elbows on knees, hitting the vape again, and it’s like he’s made out of sheet metal and somebody welded him together like that.
I almost say something.But one of the things you learn if you do enough trainings is that sometimes, the best way to get somebody to talk is not to say anything at all.Detectives do it all the time.
