by KC Burn
Saturday afternoon, he got out of a taxi and stood on the sidewalk. His physiotherapist would kill him, but he held the cane in his left hand. Maybe it wasn’t ideal, but it was a hell of lot better than using his left hand to carry the heavy sack containing a Crock-Pot full of his mom’s famous Irish stew. And he couldn’t handle both in his right hand. Besides, if things went according to plan, he wouldn’t be bringing the Crock-Pot back. Not full, and not right away.
The small, single-story house in front of him had been neat and tidy. Not that it looked run down, but until recently, someone had been caring for it with almost obsessive precision. That precision had softened, or maybe it was just Kurt’s imagination. A small car he didn’t recognize sat in the drive alongside Ben’s pristine yet environmentally unfriendly classic car. Neither were the car he saw Davy get into at the funeral, and both were covered in a thin layer of dust.
He bit his lip and marched forward. The mailbox was full, overflowing even. Not a particularly safe practice even if you were at home. Criminals would see an easy target, assuming the homeowner was on vacation. He peered at the envelopes hanging out of the mailbox like feathers hanging from a smug cat’s maw. Davy Broussard. Good. Now he had a full name.
Raising the cane, he used it to stab at the doorbell. A faint chime resounded behind the door. He waited. Peeked through the window at the side. A stack of newspapers sat side by side with several pairs of shoes and a briefcase, but with the glare of the sun, he couldn’t see much else.
This time, he used the cane to rap forcefully on the door. He didn’t want Davy avoiding him.
Several long seconds later, the deadbolt slid back, and a rumpled, pajama-clad Davy peered at him. Pajamas. At three in the afternoon. His eyes—only marginally less blood shot than at the funeral—widened in alarm, but with no signs of recognition.
“Can I help you?” Wow. Did the guy ever have a nice voice. Deeper than he would have expected from such a skinny guy. He could do commercials or something for sure. And he didn’t remember Davy being taller than him, but the two inches he had on Kurt’s six feet were nothing compared to the approximately fifty pounds of extra muscle Kurt had. Kurt might be shorter, but he was a hell of a lot bigger.
“Hi, I’m Kurt O’Donnell. Ben’s partner, remember?” Davy inhaled sharply, a near-gasp, like he’d done at the funeral. Was it hearing Ben’s name that distressed him? “May I come in? My leg is starting to hurt.” It wasn’t, but it was a good excuse. He sensed Davy wanted to slam the door in his face, but he was determined to prevent that. There were questions that he needed answered, but more important was his sense of obligation as Ben’s partner.
“Oh, sure.” Politeness overrode Davy’s first inclination, and Kurt didn’t give him a chance to change his mind as he pushed his way into the house.
“Where’s the kitchen?”
“Why?” Davy pointed to the back of the house—mechanically, instead of a true willingness to have Kurt in his kitchen.
“Because I brought food.”
“Why?”
Kurt shook his head. As he walked to the back of the house, he couldn’t see anything but generic décor applied with military precision. Nothing personal, vibrant, or alive, except for the jumble of shoes and newspapers by the front door.
The kitchen was the whitest room he’d seen in his life, and that included the hospital room he’d recently spent three days in. The only speck of non-white came from the black burners on the stove and the chrome taps at the sink. After heaving the Crock-Pot onto the counter, he grimaced slightly. It was his mother’s old one, with a dark green ceramic liner and a garish line drawing of a red rooster on the front. And it looked almost obscene sitting on the white counter in the whiteout conditions of the kitchen. Was this what Davy liked? This… nothingness? Even Kurt’s shitty apartment had a blue sofa and colored dishtowels, for God’s sake.
He shrugged. He was here, he’d have to make the best of it. Hope Davy at least appreciated the sentiment. By rights, he should have been here much sooner, but his lack of mobility affected his decision as much as the fact that Davy didn’t know him any better than Kurt knew Davy.
After he’d fiddled with the pot and got everything set up, he turned around. Davy sat slumped at the kitchen table, chin propped up by a hand, eyelids at half-mast. Bags under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks spoke loudly of how difficult the past couple of weeks had been. Even more startling was how Davy, with his pale-blue pajamas and his dark brown hair, somehow managed to fade away to nothing in this painter’s blank canvas of a room. Kurt expected him to stand out like a rose among the weeds, but the whiteness camouflaged him.
“Are you okay?”
Davy nodded with his eyes, like he was too tired to move his whole head. “Sandra’s not here, you know.”
What? “Um. I know?” A light flickered on in his mind. The conclusion he’d drawn at the funeral, that Sandra was Ben’s wife or girlfriend, had been an intentional misdirection on Davy’s part. Maybe Ben and Davy lied to everyone about their relationship, not just Kurt.
“Why are you here, then?” Davy asked.
“I’m sorry, I should have been here earlier.”
A puzzled look crossed Davy’s face, and he peered at the clock on the wall. “Today? I’m sorry, did we have an appointment?”
Kurt’s cheeks heated. He’d barged in here, without an invitation, and Davy didn’t seem to know what the hell to make of him or the situation. Maybe if the poor guy had slept since Ben’s death—which didn’t look likely—his coping skills would be better.
“I’m here because you’re here, not Sandra.”
The words made Davy’s eyes open fully, and he sat straight in his chair. “What do you mean?” His chest fluttered rapidly like a frightened bird… or a man about to faint from hyperventilation.
Kurt scooted to his knees in front of Davy, pain screaming through his injured joint, which he ignored. “Breathe, man, breathe. Slowly. In. Out. There’s no reason to be afraid of me, I promise.”
He lightly gripped Davy’s knees as he spoke, getting Davy to focus on him, on breathing.
A few minutes later, Davy was no longer in danger of fainting, and Kurt levered himself into another chair. He’d just reacted, but those reactions would have his physiotherapist yelling at him for sure. He might even need to dig out the prescription painkillers he still had half a bottle of, when he got back to his mom’s. But he had more pressing concerns.
“Okay, now?”
Davy nodded, a full nod this time, his eyes full of questions.
“I know this is where Ben lived. I know… or at least, I’ve deduced you lived here with Ben.”
A slightly fearful look returned, and Davy fidgeted with fingers that looked bloodless and cold, he but didn’t reply.
Another light went on his brain. Ben’s partner. He’d introduced himself as Ben’s partner. The term had a much different meaning for Davy. “You were Ben’s partner. Life partner, right?” He didn’t see a ring on Davy’s finger, so he didn’t think they were married.
Pale pink lips compressed, as though Davy were afraid of what would fall out. Kurt had seen the action before, in guilty people who weren’t hardened criminals. The urge to tell the truth warred with fear of the consequences.
Davy’s lips parted, but instead of the confirmation he expected, Davy repeated his previous question. “Why are you here?”
“Because I wanted to apologize. Because I wanted to offer my help, with anything.”
“I don’t understand. Apologize for what?”
Kurt’s eyes began burning again. More memories had returned from that day, but not all. “I should have done more. Maybe if I had, Ben would still be alive.”
Davy cleared his throat. “Inspector Nadar explained it to me. I don’t think you’re to blame. You didn’t need to bring me food.”
Kurt raised a brow as he inspected Davy from forehead to toe. He’d only seen Davy for a few moments at the funeral, but he’d lo
st ten pounds or more in the intervening days and was as pale as the paint on the wall. His mom would have a fit if he left Davy in this condition. He wasn’t about to let Ben’s partner kill himself through neglect.
“I wasn’t kidding about helping you out. Ben was my friend.” Even if he hadn’t felt the same about Kurt. “Wife, life partner, kids… I would offer help to anyone Ben left behind. Now, it’ll be thirty minutes or so before the stew’s heated through. Is there anything you need me to do?”
Davy’s breath hitched, once. Again. Then he startled them both by bursting into tears. Harsh, racking sobs and great gulping breaths shook Davy’s slim frame. Davy stood poised to run, rubbing his face frantically, as though he could hide his grief.
Kurt couldn’t let him suffer, couldn’t let him run and hide more than he had been. Kurt grabbed him with his good hand and hauled him into his lap like a baby. Davy’s head landed on the top of his barely healed scar on his bicep, and Kurt bit his cheek to keep from yelling. He wrapped his good arm around Davy’s stiff, shaking body, and a few seconds later, Davy curled around him, absorbing body heat into his chilly form. Kurt shifted, so Davy’s head rested on his shoulder, hot tears—the only thing warm about Davy right now—wetting his neck. He rocked, like he would with one of his nieces or nephews, and Davy’s legs pulled up into an almost fetal position. Where the hell was Sandra? Where were Davy’s parents, friends?
Crooning softly, an Irish tune his mother sung to him as a child, Kurt rocked Davy, let him cry, wishing they’d been on a couch when Davy had his meltdown. A few tears of his own slipped down and dropped from his chin into Davy’s soft hair. His loss wasn’t as profound, but hurt every damned day.
He’d had complete strangers—victims and relatives of victims—break down and need comfort. Ben never understood how he could do it, but if he sensed he could help, he did. He and Ben had seen a lot of people under a lot of distress, and a hug could go a long way to ease the pain. Although he was a stranger now, Davy shouldn’t be. No way would Kurt deny him the same comfort he’d give a stranger. Not this pale, thin man Ben must have loved.
Davy’s spine played like Braille under his palms, and each of his ribs told the story of Davy’s self-neglect.
The minutes ticked by as the edge of hysteria smoothed from Davy’s sobs. Warmth radiated back from the body in his arms, and the muscles loosened, became supple.
His shoulder was soaked, and Davy sniffled, the tearing grief easing at last.
“C’mon Davy, I think you need a nap.” If he could have avoided disturbing Davy, he would have, but his arm and leg were already protesting.
He coaxed Davy to his feet and followed him as he stumbled and swayed into a large bedroom with a king-size bed. He assumed this was the room Davy shared with Ben, but aside from a small pile of clothes heaped in a chair on Davy’s side of the bed, the room could have been found in any moderately priced hotel in the nation.
Seconds after rolling Davy into bed—thankfully the guy was wearing pajamas—he was asleep, emitting soft, snuffling snores.
Returning to the kitchen, the mouth-watering scent of his mom’s stew tickled his nose as it heated. Davy could sleep for hours after his cathartic episode, and Kurt should leave. Should. But dammit. The whole Davy and Ben situation was odd, and his overactive curiosity was a major reason why he became a detective in the first place.
Starting with the fridge, he opened up every door in the room. It only confirmed what he’d suspected—Davy hadn’t bought groceries in a while and probably had eaten very little since the funeral. Cleaning products, though, were available in abundance, which was no surprise given how perfect and white everything appeared. Confirmation of a theory didn’t appease his curiosity in the least.
Graduating to drawers, he opened each until he came to one crammed with unopened mail. He took it out and sorted through it. Every piece had been postmarked the week of Ben’s death or later. Since Davy hadn’t brought in the mail for a few days, Kurt wondered if Davy’s sister brought this in. He wished he knew which of the men was the obsessive neat freak. He’d only gone through the kitchen, but that’s what he was seeing—a borderline pathological compulsion.
He popped out to grab the mail and paused by the untidy pile of newspapers by the front door. All of them were dated after Ben’s death. After grabbing the mail, he placed it on the kitchen table, although he suspected Davy would shove it away in the same drawer with the rest. He followed up by cleaning out the rotting food in the fridge and giving it a wipe down with bleach. He didn’t know when garbage day was, so he just left the bag in the garage.
After turning the Crock-Pot to low—it could stay that way all day, and Davy would have something hot to eat when he awoke—Kurt turned his attention to the rest of the house.
Working through the house as methodically, although far tidier, as when searching for evidence, he found almost nothing. Almost nothing to suggest anyone lived here, let alone two men who were apparently committed to each other. The décor was uniformly bland, and there were no personal effects from either man. Not one ragged-edged, broken-spine book sat on the few generic bookshelves. Hell, not even a brand new book was visible. Not one photo graced a single horizontal surface. Even Kurt’s lonely apartment had pictures of his family—never again would Kurt call his apartment sterile. It was lonely, but not sterile. This house was sterile, and he was tempted to dust for prints to prove Davy wasn’t a ghost hanging around a model home.
Finally, there was only the spare bedroom and the master bedroom left to search. He couldn’t search the master bedroom without waking Davy, although he was more curious than ever to find out what—if any—secrets it contained.
The spare room didn’t appear different than the rest of the house. The dresser doubled as a linen closet, and the bed was like something out a furniture catalog. Not surprising. If Ben couldn’t even tell Kurt about his living arrangements, he sure as hell wasn’t having houseguests. Besides, houseguests were frequently messy.
He opened the closet. Dear God, there was an eternity of bad jokes in here about gay men in the closet. The small space was packed floor to ceiling with color. Shirts, pants, blankets, even what appeared to be a handmade quilt with a riot of crazy colors. Boxes were stacked haphazardly, with bits of paper or fabric sticking out from under their poorly fastened lids. Throw pillows, games, mismatched lamps, and mementos jumbled together. Blues, reds, greens, purples, and yellows met his eyes. The colors overloaded his retinas after investigating the rest of the house.
A single box near the door had a grubby, well-worn lid. He opened it. Photos. Why would anyone keep a box of photos, and not put a single one up in their home?
An old Polaroid photo, complete with overexposure, sat on top. The candid shot, about ten years old, depicted Davy and Ben, laughing. He almost didn’t recognize either of them. He’d never seen Ben laugh, and Davy was a pale shadow of the happy young man in the photo. The two men weren’t touching but they were sitting close together. Kurt bit his lip against the sudden burning in his eyes.
He quickly sifted through the other photos in the box. There wasn’t another one of Ben, but several of Davy and Sandra and other people he didn’t recognize. Sitting back on his heels, he considered the items in the closet. Going through them now would take a lot of time; Davy could awaken at any moment. No doubt, everything in here was Davy’s. Which meant the compulsion toward cleanliness and lack of personal effects had been all Ben, a carryover of his workspace at the department.
Past experience had taught him that people kept their most prized possessions close to where they slept. This room gave that a lie; this room was the exception. Somehow, he knew this closet contained all the things dear to Davy’s heart.
His investigation raised more questions than it answered; he needed to talk to Davy, but that wasn’t going to happen today. He took a spin through the basement, but other than awe at the incredible home gym residing there, it told him nothing new.
Afte
r checking in on Davy, who was still sound asleep, he left a note by the Crock-Pot with his phone number and a request for Davy to call him if needed. Phone call or not, Davy needed help, and out of respect for Ben’s memory, Kurt was going to provide that help and maybe satisfy his curiosity at the same time.
Chapter Three
Assailed with déjà vu, Kurt got out of the taxi and made his way up to Davy’s front door. He hadn’t even been able to stay away for twenty-four hours.
Last night, he’d been restless, snapping at his parents and pacing, wondering if Davy had eaten the stew. He couldn’t even tell his parents why he’d been out of sorts. Thinking about Davy’s empty cupboards made him do something incredibly presumptuous. Maybe he should consider going back to desk work sooner than he’d intended, keep him from thinking too much.
He left the house while his parents were at church. He wasn’t much of a churchgoer, and even if Davy was… judging by the dust on Davy’s car, if he wasn’t going to work, he wasn’t going to church, either.
