“Sorry,” Auggie whispered.
Theo nodded and eased into the apartment. He drew the gun, although he knew, already, that no one was here. The empty building was the only possible reason the stench hadn’t been reported yet. And this was Smithfield; the people who might have broken into this building weren’t likely to report anything.
Living room, empty. Kitchen, empty. Bedroom, empty.
The dead man in the bathtub might have been Robert McDonald once. Months of decomposition had robbed him of recognizable features, but the clothes looked familiar. Theo thought they were what Robert had been wearing the night he and Auggie stole the Porsche.
Covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve, Theo stepped back slowly. Auggie had pulled up his shirt to breathe through the fabric, and his eyes were wide; when he moved to get past Theo for a look, Theo planted a hand on his chest and shook his head. He steered Auggie out of the apartment and whispered, “Call Glasses.”
“It’s him?”
Theo nodded.
“Thank Christ,” Auggie whispered. “It’s over.”
Theo pulled the door shut and carried the tools back to the car, and Auggie placed the call. They waited until Glasses arrived; it was Theo’s first look at the man, and he recognized Al Lender, detective for the Wahredua PD. Lender spotted them, waved, and headed into the building.
“It’s over,” Auggie said again, and then he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Oh thank God. Thank God.”
But it wasn’t over; Theo knew it wasn’t over. Someone had murdered Robert McDonald. Someone had wanted to frame Theo and Auggie for it. And dangerous people, including a dirty cop, had been determined to find out what had happened. Robert’s body wasn’t the answer; it was just the next question.
“Come on,” Theo said. “Let’s go home.”
25
The semester officially ended on Thursday; Auggie booked his ticket for Saturday, because Friday was the Sigma Sigma induction ceremony, followed by the Final Judgment party. Auggie dressed in a blazer and tie; Orlando, who had pledged Sigma Sigma too, wore a simple black suit. The induction ceremony was about what Auggie had expected: dry and limping along, tailored for proud parents and grandparents. When it was over, Auggie got pictures with friends, met some parents, and found a quiet moment alone. He posted a selfie with the comment: officially a bro . . . WHAT HAVE I DONE?!!! While the responses were pouring in, he sent a picture of himself and Orlando to his mom. A bubble popped up, showing that she was composing a reply. Then the bubble disappeared. Then the screen timed out. Auggie unlocked the phone and sent the same picture to Fer.
Good job, dickbreath.
Auggie sent back the middle-finger emoji.
Who’s your boyfriend?
Auggie was typing a response that explained exactly how much he hated Fer.
A string of eggplant emojis interrupted him.
Then: Did you get straight A’s?
Christ, Fer. Don’t worry about it.
I will fucking beat your ass if you didn’t.
Yes, I got straight A’s.
A thumbs-up emoji came back.
Then more eggplants.
Auggie sent back skulls, knives, and middle fingers.
“Come on,” Orlando said. His tie hung loose now, and for the first time, Auggie realized that Orlando had shaved. He looked five years younger without the perpetual scruff.
“Where are your parents?”
“Who the hell knows? Let’s party,” he said with a grin, shoving Auggie toward the door.
The Final Judgment party, the annual celebration for pledges who had been inducted into Sigma Sigma, also doubled conveniently as an end-of-the-semester blowout: finals were over, classes were finished, and nobody, with the exception of a few dummies like Auggie who had booked early flights, had anywhere to be the next day.
At the Sigma Sigma house, he and Orlando got blue wristbands marking them as inductees, and that meant comped drinks. Auggie hadn’t forgotten the Bid-ness party, though, or how close he had come to messing up his life again, so he stayed away from the tequila and stuck with a red plastic cup of beer. Every Sigma Sigma brother in the chapter was there, plus friends, plus girlfriends or, in a few cases, boyfriends, plus guys who had graduated but were still in the area or were back in town for the holidays. It meant that the Sigma Sigma house was full to capacity: it was more people at one party than Auggie had ever seen, bigger than the Bid-ness Party, bigger than the Alpha Phi Conjunction Party.
Auggie had fun.
He danced; he ditched his jacket and tie, and the heat of bodies made him sweat until his shirt stuck to his ribs. He drank—just beer, but even beer started adding up. He ate slices of pizza in the Sigma Sigma kitchen with a couple of the other inductees, and then eating pizza turned into an impromptu pop-and-lock competition, and before Auggie knew it he was dancing in a clearing with a crowd screaming encouragement. The competition ended when one of the other inductees did a back flip, and the crowd surged into the tiny opening, everybody shouting congratulations and admiration.
One of those invisible currents that run through parties carried Auggie to a quiet spot in the hall, and he checked his phone.
No new messages.
He checked the picture to his mom to make sure it had sent, even though he had seen the composition bubbles appear and then disappear. He could picture her right now, drinking Chardonnay with Brandon or Nicholas or Jefferson or whoever the fuck it was this month. He could picture her checking her phone, beginning to tap out a reply, and then when Jefferson or Brandon or Nicholas said something or refilled her wine or brushed her knee, the phone went back in her clutch.
“Shots!” It took Auggie a moment to recognize Josh Krewet, the chapter president, who was pressing a glass into his hand.
“No, man, I think—”
“Dude, that’s your drink, right?”
“I’m ok with beer.”
“No way.” Josh was grinning, weaving slightly, his eyes glassy. “I read your interview, Augs. You like Drake and One Direction, your drink is tequila, and you’re a fucking bona fide internet
