Brantley was released after agreeing to testify against his father. Brantley’s subsequent death, his father’s connection tothe Guardians, and Boone’s familiarity with both that case and tonight’s murder make all of this…oof.
Messy.
“I should invite Boone to join me at the foundry,” Hopper says thoughtfully.
Everyone looks at each other, confused.
“To…throw him into the kiln?” Sy asks, turning onto Rainey Street.
“No!” Hopper huffs out a laugh. “To paint with him. Maybe keep an eye on him.”
“That actually makes sense,” Jake says, tapping out something on his computer. “But let me do a deeper dive on him to make sure we know who we’re dealing with.”
Hopper agrees, and they end the group call as Silas pulls into the parking garage. Before they exit the car, Hopper grabs Silas’s hand across the console and looks into his eyes.
“I’m so glad we got to do this together.” His words are wonderfully sincere.
A small grin forms on Silas’s lips. “I think we make a really good team.”
Hopper laughs and raises his fist. “Go murder!”
It’s said with the same warm enthusiasm he brings to everything:drive safe, go make something beautiful.
Sy squeezes his hand once and lets go.
5
BOONE
Joniand I return to the office, and I fill out about a million incident reports while Joni quizzes me on the details of the case, plus the relevant laws that will impact both the investigation and potential trial. By the end, I feel like my brains have been scooped out.
By the time I drag myself to Eleanor—my ancient autumn-green Subaru Outback that shimmies when either the speed or the humidity goes above seventy—I’m dead on my feet. I barely remember the drive home.
Thirty seconds in the door, I realize that, despite the late hour, there’s no way in hell I’m getting any sleep. Between the scene itself, the sound Sara’s mom made when she fully understood what almost happened to her daughter, and the vigilante bomb Joni dropped on me at the end of the night, I’m gonna be up for days thinking about this case.
I lock up my holster and gun, then peel off my clothes as Angela Lansbury, my massive tawny Maine Coon, does some really inconvenient circle-eights between my ankles. I shoo her away, then stand under the shower until the water goes cold. Drying off, I dig around in my dresser for something comfortable.
I decide on some joggers that’ve seen better days and my well-loved UT art department T-shirt, complete with chili oil stain from the local noodle house. That’s where I’d spend hours buried in dense texts that ranged from the ethics of America’s latest prison reforms to color theory in modern-day existential art.
Maybe I should’ve stuck with the art.
Pulling the bottle of tequila from my secondhand bar cart, I sigh as I pour myself a couple-few fingers of the aged elixir. If there’s any reason to drink my dinner, this day is the perfect excuse.
As I raise the glass to my lips, however, my stomach recoils at the earthy agave scent.
When was the last time I ate?
If tequila can’t be marshaled for the job, I still need something to reset my fucking nervous system. Either a body to sink into or the familiarity of my old college campus.
And maybe some tacos from my favorite all-night food truck.
I pull up my preferred hookup app, fully intent on flipping through the bevy of hot, local graduate students, only to give up thirty seconds in. The thought of having to endure small talk for the sake of a mediocre hookup sounds about as distasteful as the tequila.
There’s one guy you could call, and there’s no way in hell it’d be mediocre.
Yeah, no.
Tacos and trespassing it is.
