Prodigal

by TA Moore

  “You need to know. Shay—”

  Morgan growled under his breath out of habit. A nudge from Boyd made him lock the grumble behind his teeth. He couldn’t help the scrape of jealousy. Boyd might love him now, but he loved Shay too, in his way. As a kid Morgan had learned not to share. It only left you short something.

  “I already know,” Morgan said. “I’m not.”

  There was a pause, and then Boyd nodded, his chin bony as it dug into Morgan’s shoulder.

  “Okay,” he said as he pulled away and lay back down. “I need to get some sleep. You coming back to bed?”

  “No,” Morgan said.

  Then he made the mistake of looking around at the bed, at Boyd sprawled out over the sheets on his stomach, pillows folded in half in his arms. He wanted to crawl in there with him. He wanted to sit and watch him sleep like some pervert. There was nothing he could do until morning, he supposed, so he might as well get back into bed, even if he didn’t think he was going to get back to sleep.

  “I love you,” he told Boyd again, just to say it aloud since Boyd was already out for the count. “If I could have this, I’d be him.”

  THE JITTER of Boyd’s knee rattled along the row of linked chairs. They’d been in the police station for half an hour. Coffee and excuses were free. Explanations weren’t.

  “Stop that,” Morgan growled. He grabbed Boyd’s knee, fingers too tight for patience, and pressed Boyd’s heel flat to the ground.

  “Thank you,” Donna said tartly. “He never could sit still.”

  “Leave him alone,” Shay objected. “He can’t help it.”

  Boyd scowled but tangled his feet around the legs of the chair. A second later he started to tap the steel-shod sole of his boot against the metal struts. It jarred the seat under Morgan and made a noise. He clenched his jaw against his annoyance and tried to ignore it.

  It was impossible.

  Morgan impatiently shoved himself to his feet. The expectant expressions everyone turned on him put his back up more. Morgan didn’t usually have to justify what he did or when.

  “I’m going to the vending machine,” he said irritably. “If that’s all right with everyone.”

  Donna gave him a long, suspicious look. Since she’d given her permission—and her blood—for the test, it seemed to have occurred to her that he might not be Sammy. Now she seemed to weigh everything he did on an invisible scale of Sammy or Not-Sammy in her head.

  It was Not-Sammy. Morgan knew that, but it still felt strange to be constantly weighed.

  Boyd just fished a pair of earphones out of his pocket and popped them into his ears to drown them all out. The apology hovered on Morgan’s tongue, but the sharp, sullen part of him that was still angry didn’t want to let it escape.

  He stalked out of the police station, a brisk “I’ll be back in a minute” tossed to Pitt as she tried to herd him back in, and around the corner to where the single dusty vending machine sat in its metal cage. Morgan fed in coins and grabbed the Mars bar it spat out.

  “Hey,” a voice said behind him. In the vending machine Morgan saw a face he’d last seen on the back of a book cover. He turned around. The man stuck out his hand. “Ben Sullivan.”

  “I know.”

  “Popcorn,” Sullivan said with a nod at the machine. He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it over. “And once this has all wrapped up, maybe an interview.”

  Morgan took the card. It was just black ink on white, a name and number in neat block letters.

  “Nothing to talk about,” he said. “An hour from now I won’t be a story anymore, and no one will care what I have to say.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “They didn’t before.” Morgan tucked the card in his pocket. “Talk to Shay. He’s got lots of theories.”

  Sullivan chuckled tiredly. “That’s not going to happen.” He gestured at Boyd’s pocket. “Keep the card. You might change your mind.”

  “I won’t.”

  Morgan saluted Boyd with the half-melted candy bar and headed back into the station. Pitt grabbed him as he came in and shepherded him down the hall. Apparently Mac was waiting for them. Despite himself, Morgan walked faster. He wasn’t curious, but there was an impulse to draw a line under it all.

  “This way,” Pitt said as she hustled him into Mac’s office. She hovered at the door until Mac cleared his throat and jerked his head in a clear instruction to leave. Once she was gone, Shay gave Morgan an aggrieved look and then leaned forward.

  “Fine,” he said. “He’s here now. What do they say?”

  He sounded on edge. Maybe he wasn’t as confident as Morgan that Mac would open the folder and read out….

  “Morgan Graves is Donna Calloway’s son,” Mac said compassionately. “Ninety-nine percent. That means you are Sammy Calloway.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  BOYD THOUGHT he was prepared for whatever Mac would read off that slip of paper.

  He wasn’t.

  Morgan was Sammy. Boyd had considered it in theory as an idea he thought he’d become accustomed to. Now that it was a fact, he realized the enormity of it as it expanded to fill his brain and push everything else out.

  After fifteen years, Sammy was home. Somewhere out there was a sad little grave that Boyd wouldn’t have to stand over, bones that wouldn’t catch his breath in his chest until the verdict came back. The how and why of it were still a mystery, but maybe that was for the best. Boyd didn’t think there was room for another thought in his head.

  The silence seemed to drag out for a long time, but then Donna wailed and half slid out of her chair. No time at all had actually passed. Shay caught Donna’s arms and pulled her back into the chair, his expression as poleaxed as Boyd assumed his was.

  “It’s all right.” Shay awkwardly rubbed Donna’s shoulders. “It’s what you wanted. The news we’d given up. Sammy’s here.”

  Boyd reached blindly for Morgan’s hand. His fingers brushed over scarred knuckles, and then Morgan flinched away from the touch.

  “It’s a mistake,” he said as he bolted to his feet. His hands were clenched at his sides into big, bony fists. “Or a lie. Is this some fucking windup because I was going to lie to you? Is that what you’re doing?”

  Mac set the file down and held his hands up. “Of course it isn’t,” he said. “Morgan—Sammy—the first test was right. This test was right. You are Sammy.”

  Morgan shook his head in blanket denial. He stepped back, nearly tripped over a chair, and kicked it out of the way as he headed toward the door. Boyd jumped up and got in front of him, hands up to brace against Morgan’s chest.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said. “Just—”

  Morgan grabbed his wrists hard enough to make his bones creak and pulled them to the side. There was something bleak and out of control in his face.

  “Get out of my way,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Boyd stepped to the side, and Morgan stalked out of the room. He slammed the door behind him hard enough to make the photos rattle on the walls. One slipped free of its moorings and fell the to the floor. It landed on one corner and shattered. Boyd tilted his head back and took a deep, unsteady breath.

  He shouldn’t have moved. Morgan wouldn’t have hurt him.

  “I… I can’t breathe,” Donna gasped. She tore at the collar of her T-shirt with one hand and shoved away Shay’s attempts to help with the other. “My heart… I can’t….”

  She slid off the chair and sat on the floor, hyperventilating as she twisted her fingers in her shirt. Boyd’s conscience and medical training made him crouch down on the floor to check on her. He held her clammy hand to test her pulse and quickly checked her reflexes.

  “I think she’s having a panic attack,” he said. “But call the paramedics. I’ll go find Sammy.”

  Shay stepped forward. “I’ll come with you,” he said. “I…. If it’s Sammy, I need to talk to him. I mean, he is Sammy. That was Sammy. My brother.�
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  A petty part of Boyd bristled as Shay laid claim to Morgan—as though Boyd had a better one just because he loved him before he knew. He swallowed that.

  “Maybe not yet,” he said. “Let me talk to him.”

  Shay looked reluctant but nodded his agreement. He turned back to his mother and crouched down on the floor to try to soothe her panic. Boyd left them to it and ducked out of the office. He followed the mutter of scandalized gossip through the police station and out the back door. He heard the rattle of metal on glass, and something smashed around the corner.

  Boyd looked around the wall to where Morgan stood in front of the vending machine, hammering his fist into it. The metal cage dented, and the glass front of the machine chipped and shattered as the metal hit it. Blood dripped from his split knuckles and splattered over the grubby concrete floor as Morgan punched his fist into the torn cage.

  “Morgan,” Boyd blurted in shock. “That’s enough.”

  It wasn’t. Morgan roared with a raw, cracked sound and drove one last punch into the machine. The glass cracked from one edge to the other, and Morgan slumped against it. His chest heaved as he panted raggedly, and then his knees gave way and he sank down into a crouch on the ground. He dropped his head back against the broken glass and closed his eyes.

  “Sammy,” he said. “That’s my name now, right?”

  “If you want,” Boyd said. He crouched down in front of Morgan and rested his hands against his pitched knees. “Morgan is a bit less weird for me.”

  A brief snort of laughter escaped Morgan. He grimaced and pressed his bloody knuckles against his lips as though he could hold it back that way.

  “How could this be less weird?” he asked hoarsely. “I can’t be Sammy, Boyd. I can’t do this.”

  “Why not?” Boyd asked.

  Morgan lowered his chin and opened his eyes. Tears welled on his lashes, and he angrily scrubbed them away before they could fall.

  “Because I. Can’t,” he said. “This can’t have been an option. My whole life was shit. Nobody wanted me. Nobody kept me. And that was okay because that was just who I was and what I got. You deal the hands you’re dealt, and I got a shit hand. So what. But I could have grown up here? I could have been just some kid? I wouldn’t have to sleep with a fucking fork under my pillow because my foster dad hid the knives?”

  He lifted his hands and gave Boyd a rough shove away from him, but Boyd caught himself on one hand.

  “I could have been a fucking fireman,” Morgan yelled, as though that were the final straw.

  “Do you want to be?” Boyd asked.

  “Not the point,” Morgan said.

  No, Boyd supposed it wasn’t. He straightened himself up and watched Morgan’s face twist with a knotted tangle of emotions. A tear escaped Boyd’s eye as he blinked. It ran down his cheek, and he sheepishly wiped it away. It wasn’t his pain. He didn’t get to cry over it if Morgan didn’t.

  “I love you,” Boyd said.

  “That doesn’t help.”

  Boyd went to say something, but he supposed that wouldn’t help either. Maybe he couldn’t.

  “Do you want me to go?” he asked.

  Morgan wiped his nose and glanced up at him. “Do you want to go?”

  “No.”

  “I wouldn’t have hit you,” Morgan said. “I just… I needed to hit something.”

  Boyd sat down next to him and leaned in so their shoulders touched. Morgan’s hands were still twisted into hard fists, blood caked between the fingers and the crease of his knuckles.

  “You don’t have to talk to anyone you don’t want to,” Boyd said after a moment. “We can leave, go back to my apartment, and lock the doors. You don’t even have to talk to me.”

  Morgan choked out a strangled laugh and slung a heavy arm around Boyd’s shoulders. He pulled him in to a rough hug and pressed a damp kiss against the corner of his mouth.

  “They’ll want to know who did it,” he said. “What they did.”

  “Yes.” Boyd agreed.

  Morgan closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Boyd’s. His voice was low and ragged. “What if I don’t want to know?”

  Boyd had tried to hold it back, but tears ran down his face. Maybe it was okay since Morgan’s face was still dry despite the raw pain in his voice. He wiped them away on the back of his hand.

  “What did I tell you?” Boyd asked. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Morgan grimaced and banged his head back against the vending machine in frustration. Then he took a deep breath, scrubbed his face roughly, and set his jaw. That brief, delicate glimpse of vulnerability was gone, walled up behind Morgan’s usual guard.

  “That’s not your job,” he said. “I can take care of myself. I always have.”

  He braced his hand on the ground and pushed himself up. There were bloodstains on his jeans. Boyd looked up at him.

  “Yeah, but you don’t have to do it alone,” he pointed out. “I—”

  “Fuck sake,” Morgan said harshly. “You do know Boyd isn’t short for boyfriend, don’t you? Because you’re not mine.”

  Boyd hesitated halfway up off the ground at the old taunt. He hadn’t heard that since… since Sammy disappeared. He started to say something, but he thought better of it. They knew who Morgan was now. They didn’t need any more clues, and right now, memories of back then seemed like the last thing Morgan wanted.

  “You love me too, remember?” he snapped.

  “I do,” Morgan said. “But when I leave here, you won’t come with me.”

  “You haven’t asked.”

  “And I won’t.” Morgan took a deep breath and shook his battered knuckles. An ambulance pulled up outside and splashed faded blue-and-red light over the white walls of the station. “Look, it’s fine. I just needed to clear my head. Come on. We should go back in.”

  Boyd straightened up, brushed off his jeans, and wiped his face again before he followed Morgan back inside.

  EVERYONE HAD a plan. Mac wanted to search through Morgan’s past. Shay wanted him to say Hill had done it. Donna, before she went back to the hospital, wanted him to move back in with her, to the room she’d kept sealed in amber since Sammy left.

  None of them noticed that Morgan didn’t take part. He didn’t agree or disagree, just slouched back sullenly and let them assume what they wanted. Boyd sat next to him and didn’t reach for the hand that hung over the arm of the chair.

  Mac finally ran out of plans. He exhaled, rubbed both hands over his head, and looked at Morgan.

  “That sound okay to you?” he checked.

  Morgan shrugged. “Does it matter?” he asked. He shrugged when Mac cocked his head to the side to give him a curious look. “Talk to who you want, Macintosh. I can’t stop you, and I don’t care anyhow. So—”

  There was an awkward pause, and then Mac cleared his throat. He shuffled his papers back into the file and picked it up. “Sorry,” he said. “I forgot what a shock this must be for you. You probably need some time to wrap your head around it. We can talk again tomorrow.”

  “You can,” Morgan muttered as he grabbed his—Boyd’s—hoodie from the back of his chair. “I’m going back to the B and B. If you need me, you know where I am.”

  He stalked out again. This time he didn’t slam the door, and it swung gently closed behind him. Mac shifted his weight, and glass crunched in the carpet under his feet.

  “Is he okay?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Boyd said. Then he amended that to the truth. “No.”

  Mac sighed. “I don’t know why I want to pretend that’s a surprise,” he said. “This—Jesus—it would screw up the most well-adjusted person. And his childhood—”

  He glanced at Shay and shut up.

  “I should go,” Boyd said. He’d taken the day off, but he didn’t need to admit that just now. “Shift starts soon. Just… give Morgan some space, okay?”

  “As much as I can,’” Mac said. “Some questions I need answers to.”
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  “I don’t think he has them.”

  “He doesn’t know he does,” Mac said. “Not yet. And I’ll need to speak to you again too, Boyd. Your instincts were right. The fires three days ago were arson.”

  Boyd acknowledged that with a nod, although he didn’t know what help he could be. He didn’t investigate fires. He put them out. Shay awkwardly shook Mac’s hand and thanked him stiffly. He hadn’t had a good thing to say about Mac in fifteen years. After a few uncomfortable moments, they managed to slip away.

  In the parking lot outside the station, Shay paused to stare at Morgan’s back. His expression roiled with an uncomfortable mixture of wonder and anger.

  “I want to like him,” he said. “I want to, want to be his brother, but I think I might have burned that bridge. He doesn’t seem that impressed with me.”

  Boyd patted his shoulder. “Neither was Sammy,” he joked. It felt strange in his mouth. They’d talked about him a lot after he left, but rarely laughed about him, even though he’d been funny. “I’ll talk to him, and you. Can I come by later? It’s important.”

  Shay looked curious, but he nodded without pressing why.

  “Call me first,” he said. “With the fire, I have no fixed abode right now, so I’m still getting things sorted out.”

  Boyd nodded his agreement, gave Shay a quick, backslap-heavy hug, and left. Then he took a deep breath and crossed the lot to check on Morgan.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” Morgan said as he gave Boyd a quick, three-quarter-profile glance over his shoulder. “None of it. I just—asshole moves, you know. If I push you away now, you can’t let me down later.”

  It felt like he had meant it, but Boyd let that pass for now. He leaned back against a car hood and crossed his arms.

  “You sure you want to go back to the B and B?” he asked. “You’ve been at my place since—”

  “I’m sure,” Morgan said. He hunched his shoulders defensively. “I have some money stashed there. I might need it on the road.”

  Boyd hesitated and then slowly nodded. “Okay,” he said. That makes sense.”