The best luck of the night was that the account was unlocked, and Auggie had access to years of photos. He went through chronologically, beginning with the most recent, which had been early September—right around the time the murder video had been posted and Robert had disappeared. Before that, Robert had posted regularly. He had clearly imagined himself as a kind of artist—lots of pictures of sunsets and abandoned buildings—but also as an actor: video clips showed him doing monologues or reading lines against a partner. In a video from 2012, he opened an acceptance letter from Wroxall and announced that he would be studying theater, but nothing in the feed showed any evidence that Robert had followed up on the plan. Many of the still photographs displayed Robert with friends, and Auggie began a list of recurring characters, sometimes jotting down the names and nicknames in the comments, sometimes adding his own descriptions, like (meth teeth).
Several of the pictures and videos showed Robert in the same room: off-white walls, a sagging couch, a CRT television with broken rabbit ears. The far wall had a sliding glass door that opened onto a balcony. Auggie assumed it was Robert’s apartment; it was the most frequent setting for his pictures, and sometimes Robert was alone and in comfortable clothes, a good sign that he had taken a selfie while relaxing at home. Unfortunately, there was nothing helpful like a closeup of an envelope with an address or a street sign visible through the glass slider. Auggie ran through the pictures again. The closest he could come to a landmark was an orange plastic sign visible on the building opposite. Auggie could only make out part of it, and it looked like half of the letter V.
All in all, it was much, much more than he had expected to find. He squirmed, still trying to find the right spot on the sofa, and started looking up corporate logos.
20
“Have some more champagne, dumbass,” Cart said.
Laughing, Theo tried to cover the flute. He was drunk, definitely, and it was mostly a game. He was willing to be talked into more champagne. He felt willing, for the first time in a long time, to be talked into just about anything.
“Have some more,” Cart said. He looked like an adult tonight, and he looked good too, his wiry frame shown off by fitted chinos and a polo. He shook the bottle. “Come on, we’ve got to finish it.”
They’d almost closed down Moulin Vert; only a few other diners remained, including a middle-aged couple arguing about the tip, and a group of ten, all of varying ages, all with the same chin, loudly debating the merits of Insidious: Chapter 2 versus the original. The candle on the table had burned low; their waitress drifted by like she was on the trade winds, always with the bright optimism of a woman waiting to hear that they were ready for their check.
“I don’t even like champagne,” Theo heard himself saying, still covering the flute.
“Fuck,” Cart said, drawing out the word scornfully. “Fuck, this fucker says he doesn’t like champagne when he finished a bottle all by himself.”
“Did not.”
“Fuck,” Cart said again, with that ridiculous way of drawing it out. He shook his head. “You are a fucking liar.”
“Dessert,” Theo said. “Let’s get dessert.”
“Oh God,” Cart said. “I told you, I’ve got your birthday cake back at my place.”
Theo blinked. “You did?”
“You are so wasted,” Cart said, laughing. He took Theo’s hand, the calluses on his fingers throwing off sparks, his thumb sliding half an inch until it rested at the knob of Theo’s wrist, and pulled Theo’s hand away from the flute. “Drink, motherfucker. It’s the only time you’ll turn twenty-eight.”
Cart finished the champagne bottle in Theo’s flute, and Theo drank.
“God, I like bubbles,” Theo said, melting into his seat. “Is that cause I’m gay?”
“Everybody likes bubbles,” Cart said. He flagged their waitress, who sailed over like the place was on fire.
Theo reached for his wallet.
“Not on your fucking life,” Cart said.
“It’s my—”
“Not a fucking chance,” Cart said, counting out bills. The waitress snapped the vinyl book closed and scurried away. “Come on,” Cart said, grabbing Theo’s arm. “Cake.”
“Cake,” Theo said, stumbling once, glad when Cart put an arm around his waist. “It’s my birthday,” Theo informed the bartender, who looked eighty and so surprised by Theo talking to him, Theo was worried for a minute that it might finish the guy off. For some reason that was so funny that Theo started giggling and couldn’t stop while Cart loaded him into the truck.
“For a guy who keeps so much beer in his fridge,” Cart said, snugging the belt across Theo’s lap, “you are a real fucking lightweight.”
“It’s the bubbles,” Theo said.
“Christ, again with the bubbles.”
“And I drank a lot of beer before you picked me up because I was nervous.”
They drove to Cart’s place with Eminem on the radio. Theo rested his head against the glass. Wahredua became a blur of sodium lights, a fog of orange that rolled in and buoyed him up.
“I’m gay,” Theo said.
“I remember.”
“I told Auggie I was gay.”
Cart’s hands shifted on the wheel. “And who’s Auggie?”
“He’s just a kid. He’s just a nice kid. He’s just a really sweet kid.”
“Yeah? Why’d you tell him you’re gay?”
“He’s just so fucking sweet. I mean, he’s an asshole sometimes, but he needs somebody.” Through the champagne, a thought swam up to Theo. “Hey, Cart, did you get the record on Robert McDonald?”
“No. I don’t think I’m going to be able to get it.”
“That’s ok.”
The wheels hummed under them.
“You’re a great guy, Cart.”
“Ok.”
“And I am really drunk.”
“I’m starting to get that.”
“Am I a widower?”
“What?”
“If a guy’s wife dies, he’s a widower. But Ian wasn’t my wife. He was my husband. Does that make me a widow? Or am I a widower?”
They drove a hundred yards without talking, and
