Page 82 of Suspicions on the Stage
I try again. “Or perhaps there’s an illicit rendezvous in the flute section I’m unaware of?”
That gets me a snort, which is more than I expected. He doesn’t look at me, but his gait relaxes, the long stride more measured.
“Can you even name a single brass instrument?” he says wryly.
“I can name two, but only because you humiliate me with trivia every Tuesday night,” I say, “and also because you once threatened to clobber me with a French horn and I had to look it up.”
“That was a euphonium. A French horn’s just for superficial wounds.”
I follow him through the raw wind up main quad, past the statuary to the Beauregard building. The place looms above the footpath with the stonework that’s only possible when you have three centuries of legacy and zero shame about showing it.
Slade is barely audible as we go. His feet are perfectly silent as if he’s a ninja. I can tell he barely slept; the shadows under his eyes are pronounced, and he’s already in performance black despite it being eight a.m.
“You know they’ll let you take the day,” I say. “You found the corpse.”
“If I skip, I’ll have to do this all over again tomorrow. Besides, that bastard was in charge of the production. Not counting my classes, sessions, and lessons, there will be a huge to-do about who is replacing him that I have to attend.”
I try to laugh, but the sound sticks. “I’m not sure the Beauregards will even support it after Rialto was murdered running the damn show. You may luck out and the whole thing will be canceled.”
Slade gives me the small, perfect smirk I remember from undergrad, the one that says: please, less talking, more letting me walk in peace. Standing in that theater activated something he’d put away when he came to State U, and paired with our visit to his folks, he’s struggling to hold it together.
I’ve known him long enough to recognize the signs.
There’s a question in the air, but neither of us wants to be the one to say it. Instead, we head up the steps of the building and into the warmth. As we move through the doors to the foyer, every surface is marble or gilt or some tasteless combo—a testament to the type of people who are coming to rain hell on Morgana. A student trio rehearses scales to the left, the notes cutting sharply in the cavernous hall, and I see Slade twitch at the upper registers.
The music is already getting to him—maybe that’s what he needs.
I sign in at the visitor’s console, while Slade heads for the elevator. He waits, jaw set, and I fall in beside him, because thereis no version of this morning where I don’t ride up to the third floor with him.
Once we get in, he leans against the mirrored wall, face blank as a closed book. “Iggy,” he says, as the elevator shudders upwards. “You can stop now.”
“Stop what?”
He lets the silence thicken until we hit the next floor. “The valiant bodyguard routine. I’m not going to spiral out and need a handler. You can leave me here.”
“That’s not what—” I start, but I don’t know how to finish that sentence. Of course I’m following him because if I lose sight, the entire world snaps back to its feral, unmanageable chaos, and I am not the kind of man who can handle that.
But he doesn’t know the extent of that internal panic, so I can’t voice it.
“Okay,” I say, and the doors open on three. “But you know the campus police are going to want a statement, and we all agreed no one is alone until that’s handled appropriately with counsel present.”
He shrugs and steps out. “They’ll have to wait until that happens, then. But I’m not missing warm-ups while I wait for the legal people to agree on what, how, and where.”
I can’t argue that, so I don’t. I watch him walk down the hall, cool and contained, and wonder how many years it will take before I figure out how to deal with my feelings about him.
If Morgana has anything to say about it… soon.
The third floor is the soundproofed corridor, hosting the practice-room doors and musical set-ups these students need. I stand awkwardly near the wall as a flock of violinists unwrap their cases, and check my phone like I have urgent faculty emails. I don’t want to seem like I’m guarding Slade to anyone who’s watching.
My brain won’t let go of last night’s image: Slade standing inches from that corpse, clearly soothing himself as he hides the damage it’s doing to him. The smell of old carpet and fresh blood was in the air, and everyone was sharp and brittle as we waited to be set loose.
It was too much for him, but he did everything he could to keep it inside so he didn’t cause more trouble.
I’m no coroner, but there was definitely something off about the body. Not just the wounds—anyone with enough rage and pointy weapons could do that. No, it was the little details: the blue-black cast to the lips, the way the silvery blood pooled, the surgical cut across his neck. It was a message, and I hate that I can’t read it yet.
We settle in the back of the rehearsal studio, on one of the oversized velvet sofas that look like they belong in a magician’s parlor. The place is empty except for us and the buzz of lights. Slade assembles his flute, fingers light and efficient, and starts running scales, then slides into something complex and jagged, a movement from a concerto I can’t name.
I watch his hands, the shift of muscle beneath skin. I remember the first time I saw him play, back in undergraduate days, with that beautiful hair and a band shirt two sizes too big. He played like the world owed him an apology, no matter what instrumenthe was holding. I wanted to fuck him then, obviously, but more than that: I wanted to be near him all the time.
