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His eyes close briefly. When he opens them, he looks older. Tired.

“I knew there was something. There were times when the noise would die down, when he’d be alone in a room and didn’t know I was watching him. There was something in those moments that... I thought maybe an affair, or a mistake bigger than an affair.” He sighs. “He kept a lot to himself.”

I set the photo down before I damage it.

“Okay.”

Paul leans forward. “Clint—”

“It’s okay. Really.”

I can feel the heat climb under my skin, but it is not clean anger. Clean anger would be easier. This is anger mixed with embarrassment, disappointment, the stupid ache of feeling like you never mattered.

I reach for another frame anyway. This one has Renny in a kitchen, holding a wooden spoon like a microphone. Paul is barely in the edge of the shot, one hand visible, maybe trying to take the spoon away.

“Did he cook?” I ask.

Paul gives a soft, unexpected laugh.

“No. He performed cooking.”

I look at him.

He shakes his head, almost laughing. “He would buy ingredients, make a mess, and then order something from our favorite restaurant.”

Despite everything, I smile. “I cook. Actual food. For money.”

“I know.”

Paul’s face goes still.

“How do you know?”

He recovers, but not neatly. “You mentioned the restaurant. At the pool party.”

Did I? Maybe. Probably.

“Right.”

Paul looks down at the photos. “He would have liked that you cook.”

“Would he?”

“I think so.”

I set the kitchen photo down. I pick up the first photo again. Younger Renny. Young Paul. Sunshine. Big smiles.

“Were you happy?” I ask.

The question surprises me. Paul too, judging by his face.

“Yes,” he says finally. “Not all the time. But yes.”

I nod, then tap the frame lightly with one finger. “He was trouble.”

Paul’s smile appears before he can stop it. “He was.”

“You liked trouble?”