Page 94 of Hounded

His eyes drew to slits in the shadow of his brow. “I saw the picture on my caller ID. The picture of us.”

I knew which photo he was referring to. It was one of the many candid shots he’d taken, usually while trying to coax a smile out of me. Usually succeeding. He’d set it as his contact in my phone, and I didn’t know how to change it. I could have asked Sully, but that photo and the others in my gallery were mementos I clung to, perhaps too tightly.

“And I talked to Chaz,” Indy continued. “He saidyou’re my boyfriend.”

The mention of the sleazy drug dealer stirred my hound to attention. Chaz was a special kind of scum, and someone I thought I’d put enough fear in to keep him away from Indy permanently.

I swallowed a growl and forced myself to respond to Indy’s second statement. “I said that, too, didn’t I?”

Indy huffed and repocketed my cell. “Well, you sure as hell aren’t acting like it.” He remained in the trailer’s doorway, blocking the path ahead while holding my phone hostage. “So, Iamthe guy, the one from before,” he declared. “You said I died.”

“Youdiddie.”

“No, I didn’t,” he retorted so indignantly I couldn’t hold my tongue a moment longer.

“You’re right,” I said. “Another version of you died. In this trailer. In our bed.” I stabbed my finger toward the unseen bedroom loft. “I had to clean it up.”

Indy’s freckled cheeks paled. “What?”

I drew a settling breath, then checked again for other residents passing by. Despite the appearance of privacy, I didn’t want to tackle this conversation standing in the open.

“Can we take this inside?” I asked. “The neighbors already know enough about our business.” My meaningful glance at the rainbow flag was met with the return of Indy’s scowl.

“Why does it matter what the neighbors think?”

Rather than answer, I scuffed my shoe against one of the paving stones we’d cemented into a patio. It had been a long, hot day leveling the ground with shovelsand sand, but it made our mobile home feel more permanent. Stable. One less thing that was likely to change. And that had meant so much to me.

“Whatever.” Indy rolled his eyes, then retreated into the Airstream, beckoning me to follow.

I made it inside and pulled the door against my heels. The trailer was messier than it had been last night. The canvas on the art desk glistened with wet paint, clothes littered every surface, and a dozen DVD cases were scattered around the television. An open box of Fruit Loops and a jug of orange juice sat on the counter beside the fridge. At least he put the milk away.

The curtains were drawn, making the space feel shrunken and sad. Indy stood aside, watching while I surveyed the moody colors splashed on his art in progress. Gray, black, and blue swirled in a gloomy spiral. I remembered that feeling from last night and days before that, being drawn endlessly down, treading water to keep from drowning.

I didn’t like to think of Indy knowing that despair. To me, he was a burst of light in a dark world. But he’d been sad, too, and I thought I understood why he wanted to die. Maybe sometimes even a short life was too long.

“Well?” Indy prompted.

I sighed wearily and held out an open hand. “My phone?”

He gave his head a single, decisive shake. “Talk first.”

I had opened this dialogue and, in doing so, invited his questions. But I had one of my own: “Why were youtalking to Chaz?”

“You said Idied,” Indy repeated as though I hadn’t spoken.

After being so shaken by my earlier declaration, he seemed to have recovered, but his stricken look had returned. He was pale, and his contoured eyebrows were pinched.

The time for secrets was over. The truth always came out, sometimes sooner than this, sometimes later. Regardless, it rarely went well.

“You die all the time,” I said. “It’s what you do best.”

That left him quiet, and I took the opportunity to wander into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, I perused its contents. Indy had gone through most of what I bought while he was in rehab, except a few eggs and a package of brie that was more to my taste than his. If memory served, there was a jar of fig jam in the pantry.

Indy tailed me into the kitchen but kept his distance. When I opened the cabinets on the hunt for the fruit spread, he called over. “Are you kidding me right now? This isn’t funny.”

I found the jam and a sleeve of multigrain crackers, then turned toward Indy with both tucked under my arm. “You’re right,” I replied. “It’s not.”

After gathering a plate and cheese knife, I laid out the ingredients. I was peeling the wrapper off the brie when Indy snapped his fingers in front of my face.

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