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With Sera out of the bookstore on Wednesday, leaving me to my own devices during a day that’s known for being dead, I take the opportunity to do whatever I personally think needs doing.
By noon, however, when it’s obvious this is going to be the least busy day we’ve had in about three months, I decided that if I don’t do something useful, then I’m going to fall asleep.
And to me, useful is definitely sticking my nose where it absolutely doesn’t belong, like all up in the Lost Boys’ business.
While there’s no news of a dead man showing up anywhere, and I don’t expect there to be, I instead google every single one of the Lost Boys to the best of my ability before deciding that leads me nowhere.
Well, except when I type in Cyril Chancellor and Ashe together in the search bar. They’re the only ones that come up side by side, with Cyril standing in front of an office door in a suit that matches Ashe’s outfit and an arm slung over his Lost Boy.
Didn’t Isaac tell me Ashe and Cyril had known each other the longest? Now I can barely remember since that conversation seems so far removed fromnow, but I swear he told me that. So maybe Ashe isn’t a product of abuse or a bad situation like the others are. Which, admittedly, seems a little weird when I know the other three came from bad situations.
Though I have to wonder how bad and just what kind of situations they actually came from for Cyril to find and spirit them away.
Would they tell me? Would Isaac tell me the details if I asked or was persistent about it? I can’t read him well enough anymore to know if he would or if I’d just be pissing him off by asking.
I’m totally not going to ask.
…Maybe.
As I scroll through the images on my phone screen, I find multiple pictures of Cyril and his uncle and a few more of Cyril and Ashe. Though none of the other Lost Boys are in any of them, and I can’t find any mention of them. Not even when I type in Cyril Chancellor and Lost Boys together. As if their gang name is going to pop right up.
When I cross a picture that has a familiar face in it, however, I do a double-take.
The man from the cabin is in one image, standing nearby and looking sullen, while Cyril, his uncle, and another man who looks like he might be faking his enjoyment of being…wherever they are.
I click on the image and find that it’s attached to an article to scan the story about some local strip mall getting updated and rededicated to the community. Not that I really care about any of that. But Idocare when the article names the other suit-wearing man in the picture.
Declan Roger.
I’ve never heard his name before, and when I search for his name on the internet, I find a few different, sparse results about him being a businessman who likes to not be involved with much of anything in the public eye.
But there’s nothing of interest until I again find a picture of Declan and the man who Ezra had so kindly relieved of three of his fingers before slitting his throat. While it takes some digging and some image searches, I finally manage to findhisname as well.
The results turn my stomach.
Charles Hodgins, the man in question, was not a good person before he died. Two articles discuss sexual assault allegations against him that were thrown to the wayside, and one even speculates that a hefty sum of money was involved in letting him go free. His name is mentioned in a few different places, though all of it just manages to make me sneer and my lips curl in disgust. No one hasanythingnice to say about Charles, and it seems to me like maybe his death was…community service to the world.
That’s not an okay thing to admit, I tell myself with a sigh, resting my elbow on the register as I stare at my phone. Even if it’s true, it’s a bad, indecent thought to have about someone who just got murdered.
Maybe he had it coming. Maybe his karmic debt was so deep that the only answerwasdeath.
And besides, I’m not to blame. It’s not like I could’ve sprung into action and saved his life against the two of them. Well, three of them if I counted Cyril. What was I going to do? Plead for his life?
It was totally out of my hands. So far out of my hands that it was basically an act of God. Just…an exceptionally malevolent, crazy God.
I go back to searching for anything I can about Declan Roger, just to try to see what kind of man would hire someone likethat, and I’m so deep in thought that when my phone rings, I jump and drop it onto the counter where it clacks and vibrates to a stop.
One day I’m going to break the screen, and my bank account is not healthy enough to afford a new phone.
The number is blocked, and though my phone isn’t warning me of spam, I hesitate anyway. Could it be one of the Lost Boys? That would make the most sense, anyway, since they seem like theyneedblocked numbers.
Maybe Cyril wants to yell at or threaten me again.
Maybe Ezra wants tofuck meagain.
I answer it and bring the phone to my ear, sighing as I say, “Hello?” With an expectation that I know who’s on the other end.
“Miss Verlice?”The voice is feminine and overly friendly, like a telemarketer who will beg and plead for me not to hang up while quoting something about an extended warranty that I don’t have for a car that doesn’t exist.
