Page 31 of Victorious

It was the randomness that gave him pause. A gardening site. The email told him he’d been invited, but not by who, and when he clicked through, it asked him to create an account. He nearly closed the browser then and there.

Instead, he chose a handle—TurningOveraNewLeaf—and clicked through.

Two messages sat waiting in his inbox. The first was a generic welcome to the message boards, along with a reminder to keep it friendly. The second was from a user with the handle SharpenedSpade1652.

1652.

It was the number of his cell at Wrighton Penitentiary.

The one he’d shared with Victor.

The message itself was brief.

TURNINGOVERANEWLEAF: HOW’S THE WEATHER OVER THERE?

Mitch’s anger flared. He started to type Vic? Where the hell are you? Then stopped, and forced himself to back out, letter by letter. Assuming this was Victor, he’d chosen to reach out on an unencrypted page. So they were talking in plain sight.

Mitch’s hands settled on the keys. He took a breath, then typed.

SHARPENEDSPADE1652: BEEN ON THE ROAD. NOT STOPPED LONG ENOUGH TO KNOW.

He hit SEND. Glared at the screen. Watched as the dot beside the other handle turned from gray to green. SharpenedSpade1652 had come online.

TURNINGOVERANEWLEAF: WHAT ABOUT YOU?

SHARPENEDSPADE1652: CLOUDY. HOPING FOR RAIN.

Mitch rubbed his eyes. He was too tired to speak in code. He glanced at the phone on the hotel desk, the number printed on its front. Was about to type it into the chat when ten digits appeared by Victor’s handle.

Mitch lifted the room phone off its cradle.

He didn’t bother writing down the number. It was clearly a burner.

He glanced toward the bathroom door, heard the white noise of the shower running, and dialed.

It rang twice, and then, there it was, that low, familiar voice. “Hello, Mitch.”

Relief rolled through him, followed by anger. Anger at the other man, not for leaving, but for lying about it. For letting Syd ever think that he would stay.

“Vic,” Mitch spoke through gritted teeth. “Where are you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He heard the sound of ice shifting in a glass, the strong wind of high places. Imagined Victor standing on a balcony somewhere, a city stretching out beneath him. “Is the kid okay?”

No, Mitch wanted to say. But that wasn’t true. Sydney’s resilience continued to amaze him. She’d weathered her own near-death and an attempted execution, as well as the loss of her sister and any chance at a normal life.

“She’s fine,” he said. Then, “Too much like you.”

Victor made a sound halfway between an exhale and a chuckle.

“What about you?” asked Mitch.

The last time he’d seen Victor, his power was literally killing him. Some part of Mitch had wondered if that was why he’d left that night. To spare them the inevitable pain, the grief. If that was why they hadn’t heard from him in those three months.

Because he was already dead.

“I’ve found a … temporary solution,” said Victor, weighing his words. “It’s not ideal. But it will hold until I find a more permanent fix.”

And then? Mitch wanted to ask. Are you coming back?