“I know that,” she said. “I was talking to myself. Or praying. Or something.”
“I understand.”
We sat quietly for a few moments, Sky’s eyes on me, mine on her giant computer screen, an idea taking root in my mind and blooming. “Sky?” I said. “Would you mind showing me Dylan’s office?”
Seven
Back when my dad was a working cop and I was a worshipful kid constantly pelting him with questions, he told me that every criminal has a secret drawer, and it’s an investigator’s job to find it and get it open. He didn’t mean it literally. The “drawers” in which Phil Randall had poked around and found evidence included storage containers, safes, and, in one instance, an Airstream trailer. Actual drawers, too, though. Since it was before the days of clouds and encrypted emails and disappearing texts, there weren’t as many places to hide incriminating things.
Everybody has a secret drawer. And the funny thing is, Sunny, it’s almost always somewhere obvious.
Sky unlocked Dylan’s office and turned on the lights. I looked around. While Sky’s workplace was sleek and modernand professional, Dylan’s had more of a playroom/man cave vibe. There was a refrigerator, a stocked bar, a ninety-inch mounted TV screen. In the corner of the room stood a life-size model of Frankenstein’s monster, a Gonzo can clasped in each hand.
His computer, though, was identical to Sky’s.
I asked her to turn it on, and she did. The screensaver was of Dylan at a formal event with a curvy brunette with big, vacant eyes. He wore a blue velvet tux. She wore a skintight white dress, gold hoop earrings, and a chunky watch—a men’s Rolex, like the one I’d seen Dylan wear. It could have been the same watch, as his wrists were bare. His date was very tan, with pale blue eyes that seemed to cut through the lens. I glanced at Sky. “Some influencer probably,” she said. “I have no idea who.”
“I’m taking it he dates a lot of them.”
“That’s an understatement.”
I asked Sky if she knew Dylan’s computer password, and she moved over to the desk and typed it in. “Same as mine,” she said. “Crimson.”
Dylan and his lady friend disappeared, and the screen opened up. “Spend as much time in here as you need,” Sky said. “I’ll be in my office if you have any questions.”
I slipped my phone out of my purse’s side pocket and asked for her info. She took it from me, typing her name, email, and number into my contacts.
I thanked her, my focus returning to the screen. On the surface, there didn’t seem to be that much to go through. Onefile was markedGonzo,and when I clicked on it, there was only one document inside: Marketing Ideas, created six months ago. I opened it and read through it quickly. It included a brief list called “Top Boston Influencers.” Blake was on it. Obviously, it hadn’t been updated for a while.
I checked his online history. Predictably, it was mostly porn, the few exceptions being sites where you could buy lingerie and designer car and yacht accessories. I went to Google and checked his recent search history, which consisted of his own name (repeatedly), “benzo side effects,” and porn.
He didn’t have many photos, but three were of the woman from his screensaver. They were called Bella1, Bella2, and Bella3, and all looked like selfies, one a close-up, the other two in skimpy bikinis. I didn’t recall a Bella from Lydia’s list, and so I pulled the steno pad out of my purse and wrote down the name, plus “Dylan’s screensaver” to make sure I remembered. For good measure, I grabbed my phone and took a picture of the close-up—Bella’s hand at the side of her face, those sad, empty eyes of hers aimed at the camera, the same watch and earrings as in the screensaver, long fake nails painted a pale coral to bring out her tan.
There were other images—test photos from Gonzo shoots, pictures of Dylan at Welch Industries gatherings and family get-togethers, always standing close to his mother, his dad somewhere off to the side. In one of the more casual shots, he was also flanked by Sky. Dylan looked relaxed and happy, his blond curls glistening in the sunlight, his head tilted towardhis friend. His mother’s arm was around his back, the hand grasping Sky’s shoulder, holding both of them close—as though she was afraid they might escape. Bill Welch stood to the right of Lydia. His arms hung at his sides.
After I closed the photo folder, I stepped back from the computer and looked at Dylan’s desk. Like Sky’s, it was black and gleaming, with nothing on top except the computer. It didn’t seem like Dylan, whom Sky had called “kind of a slob” and who, from what I knew, was messy in every other possible way.
My gaze traveled down, to the one long drawer at the center of the desk. I heard Dad’s voice in my head.Everybody’s got a secret drawer.I slid it open.
“Wow,” I said. It was stuffed to the brim with trash.
I took my phone from my purse and called Sky. She picked up right away. “Have you ever looked in Dylan’s desk drawer?” I asked her.
“No?”
“Well, I’m doing that as we speak.”
“Is it a mess?”
“Major understatement.” I pulled out a wad of receipts, a broken yo-yo, an empty Xanax bottle, the cardboard backing from a legal-size pad of paper, a few crushed Solo cups, the wrapper from one of those giant Hershey bars folded in tenths.
“You should see his closets at home,” she said. “He’s like Stradlater fromThe Catcher in the Rye. Secret slob. I feel sorry for his cleaning lady.”
“As I recall, Stradlater didn’t clean his razors, right?” I said. “This is next-level hoarding.”
“Oh, really?”
I put Sky on speaker and pulled out a handful of Mardi Gras beads; a used tube of some type of prescription ointment; a ripped, empty wallet; a few spent Sharpies; half a wrapped sandwich from Pret A Manger; five flattened cans of Gonzo. “At least he likes his own product,” I said.
