Suspicion darkens his eyes. “You know this game? Nobody I talk to about it has heard of it.”
I wander over to the cabinet beneath the TV and pick up the video game case. Yup, I have the identical one at home.
“Dude, I’m all over this game,” I tell him. “One of my teammates got me hooked on it, this guy Fitzy. Well, his name’s Colin Fitzgerald, but we call him Fitzy. He’s a serious gamer, plays a ton of weird shit nobody even knows exists. He actually reviews games for the Briar blog—”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Morris exclaims. “You actually know F. Gerald? I’m obsessed with his reviews. Wait—he’s your teammate?”
“Yeah, Fitzy uses an alias for the blog. He doesn’t want chicks knowing he’s a hardcore geek.” I grin. “As hockey players, we have a certain reputation to uphold.”
Morris shakes his head in amazement. “I can’t believe you’re friends with F. Gerald. He’s a fucking legend in the gaming community…”
He trails off and our surprisingly animated discussion reaches it conclusion, an awkward silence creeping in to take its place. Sighing, I gesture to the screen and advise, “Save the ammo.”
His eyes narrow. “What?”
“You keep failing this level, right?”
With utmost weariness, he nods.
“Same thing happened to me. I’d make it all the way to the end, but then I wouldn’t be able to kill Don Angelo because I’d be out of ammo and there are no fucking ammo crates in the warehouse.” I offer a helpful suggestion. “There’s a switchblade on the docks. Grab that and use it on Angelo’s enforcers, then bust out the AK when you reach the warehouse. You might die the first few times, but eventually you’ll get used to killing with the knife. Trust me.”
“The switchblade,” he says doubtfully.
“Trust me,” I repeat. “Do you want me to pass it for you?”
“Fuck off. I’ll pass it myself.” He reaches for the controller, then sighs and looks my way. “So where’s the knife?”
I flop down beside him. “Okay, it’s hidden in the corner of the shipyard, near the dock master’s office. Just head that way and I’ll show you when you get there.”
Morris presses restart.
*
Grace
The first thing I do after marching out of the media building on Monday evening is send a very curt text message to one John Logan.
Me: Are u home?
Him: Yup.
Me: Txt me your address. I’m coming over.
It’s almost a full minute before he responds.
Him: What if I don’t want any visitors?
Me: Srsly? After all your “wooing” you’re really gonna say no?
His next message pops up in no time at all. It’s his address.
Ha. That’s what I thought.
My next course of action is to call a taxi. Normally I don’t mind the thirty-minute walk to Hastings, but I’m afraid my anger might multiply to a scary level if I allow it thirty whole minutes to fester. Yep, I’m angry. And annoyed. And thoroughly flabbergasted. I knew Morris wasn’t thrilled about what happened at the Sigma party, but he hadn’t given me any indication that it was a deal-breaker. If anything, he seemed incredibly understanding when I explained my history with Logan on the walk home.
Which makes what just happened a hundred times more perplexing.
I fidget impatiently during the five-minute cab ride, and when we reach our destination, I slap a ten-dollar bill at the driver and open the back door before the car even stops moving. It’s my first visit to Logan’s house, but I don’t give my surroundings more than a perfunctory inspection. Neat lawn, white stoop, and a front door I immediately pound my fist against.
Dean answers the door wearing nothing but a pair of basketball shorts, his blond hair sticking up in all directions. “Hey.” He greets me in surprise.
“Hi.” I set my jaw. “I’m here to see Logan.”
He gestures for me to come in, then points to the staircase on our left. “He’s in his room. Second door on the right.”
“Thanks.”
That’s the extent of the conversation. He doesn’t inquire as to the reason for my visit, and I don’t offer an explanation. I simply march upstairs to Logan’s room.
The door is wide open, so I have a clear view of him lying on a double bed, his knees drawn up and an open textbook balanced against them. There’s a deep furrow in his strong forehead, as if he’s concentrating on what he’s reading, but his gaze shoots to the door when he hears my footsteps.