Michael woke to the screeching sound of his alarm and hastily turned it off. He hadn't wanted to wake Andrew, who had no need to be up as early as he did. He quickly found that his rush to create another silence was pointless, though, because Andrew was already awake.

"You're up early," Michael yawned. Andrew just nodded. He looked dazed. Taking a quick glance at him, Michael could see why, and he snickered under his breath. "Did you go and change, or...?"

"I didn't." Andrew stared into space, likely trying to remember how and when he'd put on pajamas. His version of pajamas, anyway, which was just an oversized long-sleeved tee over a pair of little cotton shorts. Or maybe those were boxers. Some people slept like that.

Whatever had happened, Andrew didn't dwell on it for too long. He only had that blank look on his face for a few more moments before he seemed to snap back into consciousness. A sort of jolt that startled him awake.

"I'm just going to get ready to go," Michael droned as he made his way for the coffee pot. He could shower quickly enough by now that he was usually finished with his hygienic rituals by the time the coffee was ready. "I have to catch that early bus, remember? You can go back to sleep. Izzy won't be here for another couple of hours."

"I don't know that I can, actually." Andrew was now aware of himself enough that he'd recoiled into his blanket, like he was hiding, and he rubbed the corners of his eyes. "I'm awake, I'm just... like this in the mornings."

"You're dazed. It may still take a little while to get past that. You have to get used to your body all over again now that you're aware of it."

Andrew didn't directly respond to that.

"Why take the bus, anyway? Why not just drive? It might be quicker."

"I don't have a car."

"What?"

Michael shrugged.

"I had one of those barely-functioning hunks of scrap metal the last place we lived, but it wasn't worth dragging all the way out here. So I sold it for parts and have yet to buy another. It's easy enough to get around here without one, and Izzy can just pick me up in our mother's if we need to get somewhere far away enough."

"I have to admit, I... didn't see you as the type to still be carpooling."

"And I have to admit that I just don't like to drive. It makes me nervous. Maybe I'm just not as used to it as I should be? Driving a car is such a pain in the city that we almost never did it. We always took the train, or maybe a taxi."

"I see."

Michael finished with the coffee pot. Andrew returned to his own apartment for a little while to take care of his own morning routine, and Michael thought he heard him say something about breakfast, but he'd said it as he ran out the door and he hadn't quite caught that last bit. By the time he returned, Andrew was properly dressed and poking around in his fridge.

"There's still almost nothing in here," he scolded, shooting Michael a disapproving look over the door. Michael, who knew that that the fridge only contained a few bags of salad, some bagels, and a carton of milk, shrugged.

"...I don't eat a lot."

"Michael!"

"There's canned soup in the cabinet up there. Crackers, too."

"You can't just eat crackers! You need protein! You at least need enough to make a sandwich or something." Andrew peered into the freezer for a moment and scrunched up his nose at the fact that it was completely empty. Michael shrugged.

"I run on... that. For the most part." Michael gestured at the coffee pot. He was still too tired to think of a synonym, but he wouldn't use that word. Andrew would laugh at it.

"Michael," Andrew said again, pulling at his own hair. His name sounded strange when it was groaned as some kind of admonishment. Isabelle did that a lot, though. Michael was used to it. What he hadn't expected was for Andrew to run out of the room again, out into the hall, without explaining where he was going. He didn't plan to be gone long, though, because he hadn't even bothered to close the door behind him.

Michael had already acquired his mug of coffee and sat down at the table when Andrew came running back, this time armed with bread and what looked to be a carton of eggs, among other things. He grumbled something about Michael not having any "real" seasonings. Whatever that meant.

"You at least have cookware, right?" Andrew asked. He didn't wait for Michael to answer him. He found the pan he was looking for relatively quickly and threw open drawers until he located a spatula. Michael shook his head at him. Even though he knew there wasn't much point to it.

"You don't have to do that," he reminded Andrew, who didn't so much as look at him. Andrew scoffed, which had the same effect as being angrily hissed at by a kitten.

"Don't argue with me!"

Michael chuckled.

"...When did you get so stubborn?"

"You don't give people much of a choice," Andrew sighed. "I think I understand your sister a bit better now."

That comment wiped the smile off of Michael's face. Izzy sure would have loved to overhear that, he thought. These days, he ended up getting lectured about something every time he spoke to her.

Andrew fiddled around with his mess of supplies for a moment before he spoke again.

"You don't have too much time, so I can't do anything too fancy, but it should at least hold you over for a while. Until lunch, I hope." He laughed. "My grandmother was always trying to make me eat more. She always thought I was too skinny."

Michael couldn't tell what Andrew was doing. He avoided any commentary about grandparents because he had never really had any— he rarely thought about it, but his family was very small. Andrew looked to be making toast. He had also cracked a couple of eggs. Michael tried to peer over the man's shoulder from where he was sitting to no avail. But Andrew was quick about his work, and before long he brought over two plates. Each one had a single piece of toast topped with a perfect sunny-side up egg. 

"It's beautiful," Michael said, surprised. He meant that. He almost didn't want to bite into it or cut it with the provided fork. Andrew laughed sheepishly.

"I can't promise anything about the way that it tastes. It took me long enough to learn how to make the egg so nice," he admitted, tentatively poking at the yolk of his own. Maybe that was an artist thing— being more particular about aesthetics than technical details.

Despite his worries, Michael was able to assure Andrew that it was, in fact, good. It certainly beat his usual plain bagel. He took a few bites before he gestured at the coffee pot.

"By the way, would you like some..." Andrew stared at him, entirely too alert, waiting for that word. "...Caffeinated beverage?"

Andrew blinked in surprise, and then he laughed. Michael wasn't much of a comedian, but he had realized a while ago that he liked making Andrew laugh. He imagined that a lot of people had when he'd been alive. The abrupt change in his face when it went from his shy resting expression to laughter was as bright as it was sudden. Like flicking a light switch on and off. It wasn't the kind of thing he saw very often.

He had finally identified what it was about Andrew that made him seem younger than he was— he carried about him a sweetness and a sincerity that most people outgrew by the time they became cynical adults. He was childlike only in the fact that he wasn't pointlessly jaded.

When Andrew finished laughing, he sighed happily.

"I would love some, um. Bean water."

Michael sputtered out a laugh at that one. Bean water. That was new. Technically correct, but completely unappetizing. A lot of things probably lost their appeal when they were explained literally.

Breakfast was a short affair. Over almost as quickly and suddenly as it had begun. Michael would have dragged it out longer if he could have, perhaps entertained a bit of small talk, but he had places to be and important things to do. He explained as much when he stood and thanked Andrew for the meal. Andrew looked a bit sad for a moment. And he watched Michael from the kitchen table, something distinctly bothered in his gaze, as he put on his coat. Michael stopped to give him a questioning look.

"What is it?"

Andrew flinched. He hadn't expected Michael to notice.

"I... feel like I'm supposed to warn you," he answered.

"Warn me about what?"

"Worthington, I think. They'll know you're not one of them."

"...What an ominous thing to say, Andy!" Michael couldn't pretend to be unfazed by that particular comment, because that had honestly caught him off guard and was an unusually creepy thing for Andrew to say. Lily used to say that sort of thing all the time. Lots of ghosts did, but Andrew was usually either cheery or nervous. Not foreboding. Andrew shrugged.

"It's better than being blindsided by it, isn't it?" After an awkward pause, Andrew shook his head dismissively, though his expression remained concerned. "Forget about it. ...Forget I said anything. Maybe I'm overthinking things."

Or maybe I'm not, Andrew did not add, but they both heard it anyway.

Michael hoped that that was the case— that Andrew had been overthinking. He continued to maintain that hope as the bus bumped along its path, carrying him towards an uncertain destination. A city that seemed more like a myth than a tangible place. He knew it would feel strange to be there, that it would take him some time to adjust. He texted his sister and confirmed that Isabelle had arrived at his apartment without any trouble. That she was with Andrew and the both of them were, hypothetically, safe and together. Michael would have to try not to worry about them. Why was he worried about them? Just because Andrew had made a strange comment? He wasn't normally one to let that sort of thing get to him. He dealt with dead people on a near-daily basis. He didn't scare easily.

Worthington was shortly ahead of them. Not long now. Michael braced himself as if that arrival was going to carry some kind of impact, but the bus rolled to its usual anticlimactic stop. He joined the other passengers in their exit. And then he stood with two feet firmly planted on the sidewalk, nearly blinded by the onslaught of sunlight after so much time in the vehicle's shade, and with that very city right before him.

He didn't move.

Michael was most accustomed to cities. The noise, the fast pace of life, the concrete and traffic jams— those were the things most familiar to him, even if he was less than fond of traffic. And in his travels, he had gotten used to average towns and the standard suburb. He'd lived in hipster-driven art and restaurant towns, in lively college sports towns with a few too many overzealous fans, in seaside communities that centered everything around the water and the shorelines, and in the occasional sleepy small town surrounded by fields, where nothing was open on a Sunday and ominous billboards warned of the coming wrath of Christ.

He'd been all over, but he'd never been to a place like Worthington.

He didn't know how to put his finger on it, but something about the place was foreign and strange. He felt it the moment he stepped off of the bus. Like it clung to the very air and made it taste different. That was why he didn't leave the bus station right away. He just stood there, squinting at the sky and trying to steady himself. At times like this his sixth sense was more annoying than anything else. He would sometimes have these gut feelings, ones so strong that they were impossible to ignore, and he rarely understood why.

Worthington was beautiful. He wouldn't deny that. As he started to walk, he could see that its older buildings had been well-preserved, and there were plenty of trees even on the sidewalks. Any place with a large enough plot of grass had planted some kind of immaculate garden, and he seemed to find a park or a fountain or a sculpture around every corner. The iron street lamps and brick-paved walkways seemed suited to a different, more elegant time. It looked like something from a movie or a painting. And maybe that was what felt strange about it— it was missing whatever it was that made a place feel real. He felt like he was walking the streets of someone else's dream.

But there was something else that was a bit more unsettling than the atmosphere. It was, apparently, as obvious to the people of Worthington as it was to Michael that he didn't belong there and that he wasn't one of them. He didn't put a lot of stock in the negative opinions of others, normally, but nobody liked being shot dirty looks. And nobody liked getting thirty of them in an hour. And he didn't know what it was about him that they were so openly disapproving of, either. He thought that he looked nice. Maybe they disapproved of his confidence? He didn't know.

Michael already knew he'd need more coffee if he hoped to make it through this day. His movements were still somewhat sluggish and he'd nearly fallen asleep on the bus. Thankfully, a small café was close by. It was practically right beside the bus stop and he guessed that this was by design. It was the kind of place made to feel intentionally homey— a tourist trap if he'd ever seen one. He ordered a very simple cup at the counter and opted for a pastry as well. Andrew had been right. He should have eaten more the night prior, maybe, or brought along a snack for the bus ride.

There were a few clicks as the cashier prepared to send Michael's order through. She kept sneaking glances at him. Like everyone else. She giggled when she caught Michael's gaze.

"That's a lot of hair you've got there, huh?" She commented, seemingly out of nowhere. Michael gestured at himself, just to confirm that she was, in fact talking about him. And she was.

"I suppose it is," he replied, though he didn't know why that was notable. Men didn't normally wear it as long as he did, but it was just hair. The cashier giggled as she handed over his pastry and his cup.

"My little brother would be awfully jealous. He's always wanted to grow it out like that."

"Is he not allowed to?"

The cashier laughed like Michael had told a joke and he didn't know how to illustrate that he was serious.

"Enjoy your stay!" She called after him as he left. Because somehow, she knew he wasn't a local.

"I plan to," he shouted back, only halfway certain that he'd done so loudly enough for her to hear him.

He already had a feeling that he was not, in fact, going to enjoy his stay in Worthington.

After the awkwardness of the café exchange, Michael wanted to avoid the eyes of the public. And Andrew had told him in a roundabout and mildly prophetic way that the city didn't take too kindly to strangers. Michael didn't have a choice in the matter, though, because the town hall meeting was going to start soon.

When he had first tried to get ahold of Joseph Guzman by email, Michael had been redirected to a secretary of some kind. And after several rounds of correspondence with her,  he had been given not Joseph's number, but Celina's. Celina had explained that Joseph was a very busy man due to his political career, his work in the church, and his supposed philanthropy. They had arranged an interview for the afternoon, as Joseph would be in the town hall meeting all morning. But Celina had told Michael that he was welcome to sit in on the meeting, amongst the townsfolk, and he had promised to do just that. Because wanted to know exactly what kind of a politician Joseph was. He could read a hundred articles on the subject, but nothing would be as telling as seeing him in action.

Michael joined a surprisingly large crowd of locals in a packed room in their town hall. This crowd was mixed in its demographics, too. Young and old, black and white and brown, male and female— plenty of people were interested in local politics. He thought that was a good thing.

He sat down on a hard bench that seemed too similar to a church pew for his liking. The woman to his right tried to start a conversation about not seeing a lot of "visitors" in the meetings and the man to his left made a disapproving face at Michael. It took him a long while to realize that the man held some kind of contempt for the bracelet that Michael was wearing, of all things, prompting him to pull his sleeve over it. He felt some strange urge to explain that it wasn't just decorative and that the moonstone and selenite helped him concentrate, but why should he have to justify wearing jewelry, anyway? Was it some sort of crime?

The crowd murmured and whispered until the chairs in the front of the room were filled. Several men in suits sat in front of microphones. Michael wasn't surprised that there weren't any women there. One of the men cleared his throat and everyone went quiet. Michael pulled out his notebook and a pen, quickly feeling irritated at the fact that his male neighbor apparently had every intention of reading everything he wrote down.

"Taking notes, huh? You some kind of reporter?" The woman laughed. Michael forced a chuckle.

The man that had cleared his throat was the one to announce the day's agenda. He did so in a sleepy voice, like he didn't much care about the topic at all. Which was mildly horrifying considering the fact that the subject was the heroin epidemic, of all things. There were a few solemn hums from the audience, at least, but Michael also saw several people shake their heads.

The epidemic had mostly taken hold on the east coast, Michael knew, but its reach was ever-growing, and even states as far from the epicenter as Colorado were feeling the shockwaves. It hadn't yet reached the level of an emergency in Worthington, but the community wanted to put safety measures of some kind in place before it was too late, before they ended up trying to control a medical and social catastrophe that they had done nothing to prevent.

That was what Michael had assumed, anyway. That it was going to be treated like a health crisis. Instead, it was being treated like a criminal issue. Citizens gave tearful testimonials about the ways they'd seen the drug take hold of their loved ones and the councilmen remained unmoved. Members of the panel suggested that opening more clinics, stocking emergency personnel with Narcan, and providing needle exchange programs would only encourage drug use, and no one spoke up in opposition to those points.

Michael thought to himself that these people weren't much fun at parties. And that, more importantly, they hadn't learned anything from the failure of the "war on drugs" thus far. Michael tried to avoid the inner workings of politics, as he found the subject emotionally exhausting, but facts were facts and the councilmen were happy to ignore them.

When Joseph finally spoke up after what felt like hours of his silent analysis, he revealed himself to be what was, perhaps, Michael's least favorite kind of politician. His concern was with the fact that society was failing to address drug use as "a sin". To corrupt one's own body, he argued, was an offense to the divine being that granted it. According to Joseph, only a return to God would fix the problem. Michael put "return to God" in quotes when he scribbled that phrase down and earned a glare from the man to his left, who had no concept of personal space or minding his own business.

"But to talk about salvation isn't enough on its own," Joseph said, and Michael perked up. "It won't necessarily help those who have already fallen to the affliction."

"So what do you propose, Councilman Guzman?"

"Oh, I don't intend to speak for everyone here. I do, however, have something of a personal proposition. Those suffering from addiction could benefit from a counseling group similar to Alcoholics Anonymous. An accountability system."

"And where do you suggest we send them? Do you know of such a group?"

"Not an existing one, no. But I'm sure you are all well aware of my charity."

There was a murmur through the crowd. The "speaker", in the middle, smiled.

"Do you have plans to begin such a program at your organization's expense?" he asked. He clearly admired Joseph. And that wasn't all that difficult for Michael to understand. For all his secret cruelty, he did have a certain charisma when he was in the public eye.

"I do," Joseph answered. "We have already interviewed several folks interested in leading some of the circles. Some of the church's finest giving their own time, with no cost involved."

There was a small applause. Michael raised an eyebrow at that. While it was nice to try and make a support group, he thought that addicts had more to gain from actual doctors and licensed therapists than from pastors. Thoughts and prayers weren't going to cure them of their illness.

After that, the meeting mostly consisted of the councilmen answering questions from the citizens. Some of these turned into miniature debates. Not everyone on the panel saw eye to eye on each and every issue. Joseph was quick-witted, always one step ahead, and his words were careful and concise. He frequently mentioned "personal responsibility" and implied, in as polite a way as possible, that the townsfolk ought to fix their own problems more often, though he was careful to use words like "community resources". A small government approach. Not necessarily wrong in and of itself, but a rather callous way to respond to stories about people who could barely afford groceries, Michael thought.

Michael scratched down a few more notes as the meeting came to an end and his neighbors left him. Michael was nearly glad that Joseph was at least offering some solution to the drug crisis other than "let them die in the streets", but wasn't that a terribly low bar to set? He couldn't help but feel that Joseph had used the meeting as an opportunity to showboat. Maybe that was his own bias getting in the way.

He didn't have much excuse to sit around after the politicians had left. But he did decide to take advantage of the structure of the building. The town hall was attached to an official library of sorts. One that he had learned still carried an old-fashioned record collection of newspapers and the like. Michael approached the woman behind the desk there. He assumed that she was a librarian, or something similar, and that she knew the place better than anyone else. 

"Excuse me," he began, and she peered at him through her bifocal lenses. "I'm from out of town, and I'm doing a bit of investigating into a certain disappearance. Do you have any records or articles on Andrew Guzman?"

The woman touched a hand to her chest. 

"Andy?" She had heard of him. She knew him, even, if the nickname meant anything. "That poor thing— we have plenty. Did you want everything we had?"

"If you could, yes. I have time to kill. Do you mind?"

"For him? Not at all. I do hope you find something. People miss that boy." 

Michael was glad to hear that. Or, no, he wasn't. Because he would eventually have to tell her, and everyone else, that it was a murder investigation and not a missing persons case. Michael took a seat at a table and within the next ten minutes or so, the aide brought him several books and explained how to look through each one. Some were alphabetical, others in order of date. They were like enormous photo albums with leather covers, each page something of a miniature envelope with photographs and clippings and articles stuck inside.

"I do wish that I could remember more dates," the woman said apologetically. "That might speed things up a bit."

"You've done more than enough," Michael assured her. She gestured gratefully before she returned to her desk and left Michael to his reading.

Andrew had first become "famous", locally, when he was a child. There were several pages from different newspapers all over the county, all reporting on one specific event. Most of them used the same photo of Andrew smiling in front of a very large painting of the Virgin Mary.

If Michael hadn't known better, he would have thought it was a picture of a boy excited about a trip to a local art gallery and standing in front of a very old piece by some famous long-dead artist. But he did know better, so he knew instead, before reading any of the headlines or captions, that it was a picture of a frighteningly gifted child showing off his latest work. It was an almost unbelievable juxtaposition—little Andrew, not any older than nine, standing in front of work of that caliber. Many of the headlines used words like "prodigy" and that seemed more than appropriate.

Little Local Artist Strikes It Big— Sells Single Painting for $5,000, one headline read. Certainly an impressive amount for an elementary schooler. Apparently the painting in question wasn't the one in the photograph, but a more gaudy piece depicting a lesser-known Saint (Cecilia— Michael would have to look that one up). One of the articles explained that Andrew was so shy that the one of him and his Virgin Mary was the only decent photo of him that anyone could get from the event. It was understandable considering his age. The room looked to be a ballroom of some kind, or maybe something in a museum, and the people behind him were finely dressed.

It was an auction. A proper auction full of actual collectors bidding real money on Andrew's pieces. The event had been hosted by a local museum. Other artists had been featured, but Andrew had unexpectedly stolen the show. His own charm was partially credited for that. Though he'd been too shy to engage customers all night, he'd been excited to see people so interested in his work, so he'd taken to hiding behind things and peering at people from a distance.

All in all, the event raised thousands and thousands of dollars. A smashing success. And all of it for an organization called "The Hands of Christ". Joseph Guzman was credited as the father of the operation. Michael tapped that name into his computer and with some tweaking, he found something about it. It was the charity that Joseph had mentioned during the town hall meeting.

The Hands of Christ was, officially, registered as a nonprofit. It seemed to have its paperwork in order, and the website often broke down its funding and explained exactly how much money went to which causes. Which looked promising, but Michael found it odd that those causes were so broad. The charity's description said something about "guiding the troubled children of God", and it didn't name any specific goal. Michael rarely came across charitable organizations that were so vague.

Whatever that nonprofit was, it owed a great deal of its success to Andrew and his artistic colleagues. After the success of the first event, Andrew had started auctioning his work somewhat regularly. Always for charity or to fundraise for his school or the community, and most often for Joseph's group.

Andrew looked less excited about the auctions as he got older. Michael didn't like watching the life drain from his eyes, and he didn't want to wager guesses about exactly what had caused it. Andrew was a feature in many an article about his latest wins in various competitions, his features in museums and events, and his father's political aspirations. There was even something about his being granted permission to design and oversee a mural covering the whole interior of a chapel on his college's grounds. Many a success, but his smile was never as bright as it was in that first picture.

For hours, Michael carefully studied everything, and no matter what he read, he couldn't find anything that plainly pointed to a suspect, or to any kind of wrongdoing or scandalous behavior on Andrew's part. The closest was something about Joseph's poll numbers being hurt due to "community gossip and familial troubles", and not long before Andrew's disappearance, but even then, no outlines as to what those troubles constituted. Even the articles about his disappearance didn't say it. It wasn't going to be that easy to find out. Michael had assumed as much anyway.

Wealthy and successful families always had closets full of skeletons, didn't they?

As he started to close and re-stack the books, the woman from before sat in front of him, her smile a sad one. Michael looked at her sympathetically.

"Did you... know him?"

"Not especially," she admitted, "but we met once or twice when he came here with his father and just about everyone knew of him. Such a little sweetheart. I can't imagine who would want to hurt that boy."

"Do you have any reason to believe that someone did hurt him?"

"Nothing more than a gut feeling, but I AM a mother, so..."

"Maternal instincts." Michael smiled. He knew all about that. "I understand." His own mother's instincts were a bit more complicated than that, but he did understand.

"I'm afraid I don't know anything helpful," she said, slumping into herself. "I kept an eye on him once. His father asked me to while he got some work done. But I didn't have to do much. He just sat in a chair over there swinging his little feet. He didn't even ask for a book, though he did take one when I offered. Actually..."

The woman stood. Michael followed her to her desk. She had to fiddle around with her things for a while, but she eventually found a slightly yellowed piece of paper in one of her drawers. She had kept it flattened between two thin magazines.

"I suppose I've held onto it this long because I could always show it off when he came up in conversation," she explained. She showed it to Michael and chuckled. "But, then, would you throw this away?"

Looking at it, at the absurdly detailed pencil drawing of what looked like a statue of an angel in a garden of flowers, he couldn't say that he would.

"No," he agreed, "I would keep it. I'm sure people have kept simpler things."

"No one would believe me if I told them I got this from a bored eight-year-old, but the locals know I'm not lying."

Michael probably wouldn't have believed her either. But the newspaper photos had easily verified that Andrew had always been that talented. He wondered when Andrew had started— when he had first shown his parents something that had surprised them for how genuinely good it was.

The woman eventually put the picture back after smiling at it for a moment. Michael offered to help her put everything away, but she assured him that she could handle it herself.

"I may be an old lady now, but they let me run this place for a reason," she laughed. "And you, young man— you have a mystery to solve!"

"I certainly do," Michael agreed, his tone a bit grim. He promised her that he would do what he could and that he would come back to her— Mrs. Beazley, according to the little tag on her desk— if he needed anything more.

As he left, Michael wondered just how many people had kept Andrew's drawings tucked away in drawers.

Michael was definitely nervous when it came time to find the Guzman residence. He had written the address down and occasionally checked it again to make sure he had the right place. There was no need— he had long since memorized it. He had assumed it would be a bit of a search once he got to the right street. It was not, and for a glaringly obvious reason.

Andrew Guzman had what Michael would describe as a "small town essence". He seemed content and at home in a little apartment with small luxuries, and he seemed like the kind of person who would smile at passing strangers just because he could. Michael had always imagined him growing up in some kind of cottage, perhaps one located somewhere in the woods.

And so it came as a great surprise when Michael found himself standing not before a normal wooden front door, but in front of a pair of gates framed in brick columns, where he had to press a buzzer and introduce himself to be allowed entrance, and where the street number he had planned on searching for was emblazoned on a giant bronze plate that was impossible to miss. He gawked at the immaculate hedges he could barely see from the sidewalk, and then at the iron bars as they swung open and he stepped through.

The Guzmans were rich. He could try and describe it more eloquently, but the plainest of words was the most expressive in this case. It was no Hollywood mansion, but it was a colonial manor, framed by a high wall on all sides and complete with gardens that sprawled out back. The privacy wall seemed a bit unnecessary, but it was a somewhat cramped area if only for how large all of the houses were. Perhaps it was to keep their business from becoming the neighbors' gossip. Theirs was not the only home on the block with such a defense.

Having heard the buzzer, Michael guessed, a woman stepped out of the door and made her way down the front stairs to greet him. He walked past two expensive cars and one "normal" vehicle, his stride quick, so that she would not have to venture further. The woman, for her part, didn't seem to have any intention of shortening the distance between them. She was in no hurry to get anywhere. When they finally met one another, where she stood just before her front porch, the woman extended a hand.

"You must be Mr. Cross. I believe we spoke on the phone?"

"Celina, yes? Celina Guzman." She verified his guess with her eyes as he took her hand and gave it a professional squeeze. "A pleasure to meet you."

She didn't look old enough to be the mother of twin twenty-somethings. She didn't look like she had ever had any children at all. Celina Guzman was something straight out of a magazine. Michael guessed that she had enough money to continue looking that way for the rest of her life. The right amount of money could preserve her beauty forever. He thought about his own mother, and about the lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth and the greying hairs on her scalp. Celina showed no such signs of growing older even though they were, most likely, about the same age. ...Come to think of it, Mikaela was probably even younger. She'd given birth to Michael when she was only nineteen.

"Why don't you come inside?" she offered, gesturing at her home. It wasn't a request. Her rehearsed smile didn't reach her eyes. That in and of itself wasn't unusual— he was there to discuss a grim subject— but there was already something about her that Michael didn't like, and he couldn't put his finger on it. That ever-so-present and so-often-irritating sixth sense pestering him again. "My daughter is out, unfortunately, but my husband is eager to meet you."

I'll bet he is, Michael thought. He doubted that was true, seeing as he'd tried numerous times to get ahold of the man himself with no success. Being busy was one thing, but a normal father would make time to talk to anyone that could help him track down his missing son, wouldn't he? That wasn't even addressing the other thing, the elephant in the room. The fact that this family clearly had more than enough money to hire top-of-the-line private investigators, and that they simply hadn't.

Celina let Michael into the foyer. There was a spiraling staircase with a carpet runner that led upstairs, and a rustic chandelier hung above. The floors were a dark reddish hardwood. A nice hardwood, yes, and Michael understood how expensive those kinds of floors could be, but at least they weren't something as absurdly decadent as marble.

"Wait here," Celina ordered as she continued down a hallway alone. "Mr. Bulmont will take your coat, and I will see that my husband is ready for you."

Before Michael could ask who Mr. Bulmont was, he showed himself. The wiry man, who looked tired, graciously accepted the offer of Michael's overcoat and took it with him into a side room. Michael laughed at the idea of the apparent butler throwing the garment across a chair as soon as he was out of sight. He didn't have the air of a "real" butler and Michael wouldn't be surprised to learn that the family kept him around only to maintain appearances.

As he waited, he studied the walls. There were many photographs hung there, all in what he thought to be obnoxiously gaudy frames made of wood stained in dark colors, as well as one painted family portrait. It had been done when Andrew and Maria were younger, before the differences of their sexes had begun to set in, and they looked so alike that it was eerie. The mirrored way in which they stood, one standing on either side of their seated parents, only emphasized this.

But there was something more eerie than that. Aside from the painting, Andrew was nowhere to be seen on that wall. Many of the photographs were old ones of his parents on what seemed to be various European vacations, while others were from recent political events and displayed a smiling Maria in business attire. There were a few of her bowing in various costumes. There were wedding pictures. One photograph showed Joseph with a little Maria sitting on his leg. There was Maria, again, in a graduation cap and gown.

But not Andrew. Not a single photograph of Andrew. He had been erased.

Maybe the pictures were too painful to look at.

Maybe they weren't.

Celina reappeared from around a corner and nodded, and Michael followed her. She led him into the living room, where a man— the very one that Michael had watched earlier— waited on a leather sofa before several empty glasses and a bottle of what appeared to be scotch. Not the sort of thing one normally offered a house guest, Michael thought, but he didn't know many rich people. There were bookshelves as high as the ceilings just behind that sofa, and they seemed to be stuffed full of daunting legal tomes with hard brown covers. The air smelled like cigar smoke. That was his best guess, at least. Michael knew the scent of cigarettes a bit too well, and while he recognized the bitter aroma of the smoke itself, something about it was a bit different.

"Mr. Cross. It's a pleasure," the politician said, standing up. Celina sat down on the sofa beside where her husband had been, her legs crossed in an elegant and effeminate way. She didn't sit particularly close to his spot or touch his hand or his shoulder, and they didn't exchange a glance. "I see that you've already met my wife. Maria couldn't be with us, as I am sure she already told you."

"She did tell me," Michael confirmed. "You, however, I have yet to formally meet."

He extended his hand cautiously. The man sized him up before taking it and his handshake was too firm. Like he was asserting dominance rather than greeting an equal. They surely looked unusual standing near one another— Michael slender and long-haired and clad in jeans, and Joseph tanned and broad-shouldered and wearing an impeccable navy suit.

"The name's Joseph. I am Andrew and Maria's father, as you surely know, and a city councilman and deacon. My wife is currently employed as a travel writer, but she hopes to win a seat on the school board in the upcoming election. Maria helps us both with our campaigns and advertising when she isn't rehearsing or performing at the local theatre."

Joseph sat back down as Michael nodded. That bit of information was, admittedly, the first that Michael had gotten about Celina. Travel writer. What did that even mean? Did she get paid to set off in a private jet and jot down the things she had seen? He wouldn't be surprised. She looked glamorous enough for that sort of thing. He was sure it was more difficult work than it sounded, but still.

"I'm aware of your position, Mr. Guzman. I was actually in the audience at your earlier town hall meeting." Joseph smiled at that. He at least seemed more relaxed and slightly less intimidating in his own home. Only slightly. Michael took a seat in the armchair across from the sofa at Celina's urging. "As for the theater— is that where Maria is tonight?"

Celina clapped her hands together.

"It is! She's very busy rehearsing for her upcoming leading role. I'm sure you understand." Celina beamed as if she were being praised when she said that. Perhaps she was the kind of mother that took great pride in her childrens' accomplishments.

"I do." Michael was already growing sick of the formalities. He pulled his business card out of his blazer's breast pocket— one that Isabelle had concocted for him just for the sake of this investigation— and placed it on the table between them. "As you know, I am an independent investigator. Your son's disappearance recently caught my attention, and I wanted to ask the two of you some questions. Anything at all would be helpful."

"Of course," Joseph agreed, and he said it like he was being gracious rather than like he was thankful for the help. Michael pinpointed what he already didn't like about them both— an air of narcissism. Like they considered him another actor in a play that was about them. "You may help yourself to some scotch, if you'd like."

Michael poured himself a hesitant (and very small) glass after Joseph stared at him for several seconds. Joseph poured a confident drink of his own and Michael got the distinctive feeling that it was some kind of contest of masculinity. Joseph and Celina both engaged him in more introductory small talk as he got out his portable digital recorder and notebook, and Michael answered so robotically that he wasn't even sure of what he had said. Some other person entered the room and didn't introduce herself. She set a glass of a different shape down in front of Celina, full of what looked to be champagne, and put a plate of snacks in the center of the table before she bowed apologetically and scurried away. Michael couldn't tell what the snacks were supposed to be, but it was something on those tiny pieces of toast. Food surely suited to a finer palate than his. Celina sipped from her delicate glass, eying him over the rim. Michael took a swig of his own liquor before he set it down on the provided coaster (like a little terra cotta tile) and focused his gaze on Joseph, whose eyes were so dark that he couldn't distinguish the irises from the pupils even from this distance.

Michael clicked a button on his digital recorder and nodded at the couple. They did not argue.

"So how long ago did your son vanish? ...Many of these questions will seem pointless or like a matter of public record, but bear with me."

That sounded more polite, Michael thought, than I have to make sure that there's nothing strange about your story. Joseph's expression soured. Celina's eyes closed, but she didn't move.

"Jumping right into it, are we?" Joseph said with a forced chuckle. They weren't jumping into anything, really, but Michael would forgive him for that. There was no way to start this conversation that wouldn't seem sudden. "Not that I mind. ...Andrew has been gone for about three years. He was twenty and nearing the end of his sophomore year in college when he suddenly disappeared. I filed a report, and the police investigated as best they could, but nothing was ever turned up."

His tone had turned more serious. That was to be expected. Michael wondered what they both believed. Did they think that their son was dead, or did they maintain the hope that he might still be alive somewhere? Michael felt a tinge of sympathy for Joseph. Then he remembered Andrew's words, and he looked down at the man's thick brown belt with its heavy brass-colored buckle, and he thought about the fact that this man had used it to hurt someone like that. That sympathy vanished and was replaced with an ache that made his fingers curl.

"Where was he last seen?" Michael tried not to let his disdain show on his face. Celina looked at her husband, and he didn't seem to know the answer, or had perhaps forgotten. Celina answered on his behalf, swirling liquid around in her glass. She studied it and her own carefully-manicured nails, refusing to make eye contact. Michael imagined that this was an uncomfortable conversation for her.

"I believe it was his school," she said, though she didn't sound confident. "He was in attendance at St. Anne's Bible College. The campus is in the historical district and the student body is rather small. There were conflicting reports of sightings, as the story made local headlines very quickly, so it's difficult to say. But the last time we knew exactly where he was, he was on his school's campus."

"Did his roommate see him last?"

Celina shook her head.

"He didn't have one. It's unfortunate, too, as that could have aided the investigation, but, alas, Andrew didn't want to be paired up with someone he did not know. We managed to secure a solitary dorm for him," Celina explained, looking sad as she did so. That seemed like the Andrew that Michael knew. Andrew was shy and somewhat private and had probably wanted room to draw and to paint in peace.

"How long did you wait before filing the report?" Michael asked. "I'm curious as to how and when you knew that he was, in fact, missing."

"Well, you see, Andrew was always punctual," Joseph said, gesturing at his watch for dramatic effect. "He was meant to meet us at the premiere of one of Maria's shows. We had front row seats. He did not show, and that wasn't something he would normally do. He would have at least called on any other day and was very supportive of his sister's work. Celina called the school and found that no one had seen him in his classes that day, or the evening prior. A search of his dorm and the places he frequented came up empty. ...That's when we knew. We don't know how long he had been missing at that point, but it couldn't have been more than twenty-four hours."

"I imagine, then, that the police eventually searched his dorm. What did they find?"

"...Nothing." Celina said the word strangely, like she was still surprised by it after all this time. "There was no sign of a struggle or of any violence. Many of his things had been packed, and it seemed the perpetrator was in a hurry, but nothing was left behind to indicate an outsider. It was as if he'd packed his bags in a hurry and fled."

"What if that's exactly what happened? What if he left?" Michael suggested. Joseph shook his head, frowning deeply.

"Perhaps that's possible, but I don't feel that it could be something that simple. Something about it is strange. For one thing, I'm sure he would have said goodbye to his sister even if he was planning to leave, and for another... Andrew was painfully shy. Indecisive. I doubt he would have done something so sudden without..."

"Without incentive. Or without help."

"Exactly. Even if he did leave, I'm sure there's someone out there who knows where he went and why. Someone that's stayed silent all this time, and God knows why."

Michael looked at his notes. The case was already strange. Andrew had died at the age of twenty-two, around a year ago. He'd gone missing when he was twenty. That meant that he had already been "missing" for two years when he was killed. And by that point, most likely, investigators had stopped actively searching for him. The usual dumping spots and areas of interest would have been searched ages ago. This timeline was nothing new in and of itself, of course, but it was something that grew more bizarre the longer Michael thought about it.

If Andrew had packed up his things and left in a hurry, of his own volition, in the middle of the night, hoping that no one would see him, why? What had frightened him so much that he felt he needed to run away as quickly as he could? That he couldn't even inform his family of where he was going? Maybe Joseph was right, and Andrew had been following someone else's commands.

"Joseph filed the report," Michael began, and Joseph nodded. "And shortly afterwards you had police all over the city. All over the county, even. Now, if it's true that the scene doesn't indicate a violent crime, and that it's very possible he was a runaway... why the search party? How is it that you got the full attention of the department so quickly?"

"I called in a favor," Joseph announced rather proudly. "A very good friend of mine— Benjamin Ortega— was the local chief of police. He's retired since then. He made a few phone calls and got things moving for us. I can give you his contact information before you go."

Michael almost laughed. Of course they knew the chief of police. Andrew's parents seemed like the sort of folks that knew everybody and that weren't afraid to use their influence when they had to. He wrote that name down, including a note about the pronunciation. Joseph had said "Ben-hah-mean", not "Ben-jah-min".

"That would be quite helpful. ...That said, I'm assuming that the search didn't turn anything up," Michael guessed.

"Nothing conclusive. Which was even more strange than it would have been if it had. Our son had apparently fallen off the face of the earth. There was some evidence that he wasn't having the best time at the university, and that there were students giving him a bit of a hard time, but the investigation there couldn't turn up any evidence of anything criminal. Not that we could force much out of them without proof that he'd been hurt or abducted, anyhow."

"My research has told me that the school is reluctant to share much information about anything."

Celina shrugged.

"As frustrating as it can be, we cannot fault them for that. The parents of their students pay thousands of dollars to provide the highest quality of education. They're assuming that their privacy will be upheld. If the school were to start sharing information willy-nilly, they would have a lot of angry investors to answer to."

Michael thought that sounded like a convenient excuse to protect the bullies at the expense of the victims. He wasn't completely unfamiliar with how those kinds of things worked. He hadn't exactly had a great time in high school, thanks to the rumors surrounding his mysterious mother, but reporting it had proven to be a waste of time. Because the bullies always had richer parents. 

"Did YOU pay thousands of dollars?"

"Our children qualified for scholarships, but that doesn't mean we didn't make donations," Celina admitted. "We expected the best and we were very clear about that."

"And yet you still think Andrew may have been harassed there."

Celina seemed to hiss air through her teeth.

"He... wasn't a stranger to that. It wouldn't surprise me if he'd started keeping that kind of thing to himself."

"And why is that?"

"He was small," Joseph said very bluntly. "And quiet. Emotional. Not especially masculine. Well-behaved, and he got good grades, which always seems to make a child a target for the delinquents. Girls, and eventually women, liked him, but were rarely interested in him, if you understand my meaning, and so he rarely had dates. I tried to toughen him up whenever I could, believe me. But I'm not a miracle worker."

And you have a funny fucking way of doing that, Michael thought, biting down hard on his tongue. Everything about them was beginning to bug him. They seemed to think it was Andrew's fault that he'd been so frequently bullied. Like it was a character flaw that he had to fix on his own and a waste of their time. How completely absurd.

"...It has been three years since then," Michael said, changing the subject as much as he could. "Has anything changed? Have you heard from him at all? A ransom demand, an accomplice, anything?"

"Not a word," Celina said with a shake of her head. "Not from anyone. Investigators have come and gone and never with much to show for it. ...I hate to be the one to say this, and to say it so cruelly, but I fear that you may be wasting your time looking for him. I don't think that he wants to be found."

"You believe that he left of his own accord, then."

"I believe that he ran away, yes," Celina confirmed. Michael could tell that Joseph didn't necessarily agree. "It's the only explanation that seems to make any sense even if the circumstances are strange. And if he did run, we cannot force him to come back. He clearly left for a reason. Or felt that he did."

"But why would Andrew run away from home? The school is one thing. If it were only bullying he could have dropped out, gone to another university. His home and town are different things altogether. So, why?"

At that, both of the Guzmans fell silent, and something moved across their faces. It was a quick flash, but it was dark, and it was hateful. It was a fleeting hint of something like disgust. At what, Michael didn't know. He could guess. He didn't want to guess. Joseph cleared his throat.

"My son... had strayed from the path of the Lord."

He left it at that, but Michael was already sure that he didn't like where the conversation was going. He wasn't fond of those who preached at others about eternal damnation, and he knew damn well that Joseph was a man who beat his own children— children that he admitted were perfectly well-behaved— and had no right to be doing it. He raised an eyebrow.

"Would you care to elaborate on—"

"He HAD strayed, yes, but he is welcome to return home as soon as he is ready to change his ways and make amends. The prodigal son is always welcome to return home, where he will find forgiveness from both his loved ones and from the Lord, and we will welcome him with open arms when he does," Celina said sharply. She smiled with her eyes closed, but she was far from happy.

"So says the Scripture," Joseph added, and Michael thought that that meant he was agreeing with his wife's assertion. He wasn't used to the ways that these kinds of dramatic religious folk spoke. "He'll always have a home here."

What had Andrew done? Had he gotten mixed up with a bad crowd? Had he gotten into drinking? Drugs, maybe? None of those things seemed to suit him. Michael highly doubted that Andrew had gotten a woman pregnant, and for a number of reasons, but he wasn't about to elaborate on that, and it wasn't any of his business. Michael rapped his pen against his notebook once. Celina's eyes snapped open to look at it.

"You must miss him terribly," Michael began. "I couldn't help but notice when I was waiting that there is only one picture displayed that includes him. And I wondered if that was because you have yet to find closure."

Michael had tried to be as polite and non-accusatory as possible about the question. Still, Celina bit her lip.

"They were too painful to look at. A reminder of the days when we were a happy family. Back when we understood one another, before we quarreled. I wouldn't expect you to understand, but—"

"No, I do," Michael said, lying through his teeth. These people seemed to have every possible thing backwards. They were hiding pictures of him and waiting for him to apologize, but shouldn't Andrew have been the one doing just that? Weren't they the ones that had rejected him, that had decided he was some kind of deviant? "I don't mean to tell you how to grieve. I simply thought it was worth addressing. To ignore it would be to ignore my investigative duties."

"That's quite alright," Joseph said. His tone was flat. He was not offended, not quite, but certainly wasn't thrilled. Michael had a feeling that he'd seen through his ruse. That Joseph knew what he'd really meant when he had asked that question, which meant he probably wouldn't get away with asking what quarrels Celina was referring to. "Was there anything else?"

"Only a few more things. For one, if you don't mind my asking... it seems obvious that you're a very successful couple with a lot of money to show for it. So why not hire a professional?"

"We've attempted to do so," Celina sighed. "There were at least three that we hired. But I fear that our name has too great a reputation attached to it. People swarmed to us when they smelled money. And then they'd get our hopes up over and over again, ask us all of these questions and start the process anew, just to come back with nothing. It's a lot to bear. Emotionally speaking."

"When an investigator seems especially serious or offers a different perspective, we entertain offers," Joseph added, "or else you wouldn't be here, would you?"

"What about me seemed worth your time?"

"You mentioned your plans to stay here and investigate in person whenever possible despite having a full-time job in a different county," Celina said. "It's a higher level of dedication than we've seen in a while. A few too many detectives think they can solve this from a distance. Over the phone. If it could be done that way, I'm sure someone would have done it by now."

"I see." Michael was dedicating a lot of his time to this. He wasn't about to explain why— to try and convince them that he knew their son. He guessed they had gotten plenty of calls from supposed psychics and wouldn't believe him even if he did say that. "...Can you think of anyone that might have wanted to hurt Andrew? Even if we are dealing with a runaway, it's best to rule out every possible suspect."

"He was not the type to go about stirring up trouble," Joseph recalled, "and was never involved in any sort of crime, as far as we know. But... he did have a surprising number of people who could be considered enemies when he left us. I would rather not detail that here, though. I don't wish to slander anyone specific, whether we're talking about people or institutions. It's tasteless."

"...Enemies." Michael had a hard time believing that. Andrew was completely harmless. "What did he do that upset so many people? What exactly was this 'incident' you've both alluded to—"

"I think that's enough for one evening."

Like the abrupt closing of a door, Joseph's voice cut through Michael's careful process and brought it to a screeching halt. Michael tried not to frown. He hadn't expected to arrive at an impasse so early. Joseph had no intention of talking about his son's alleged transgressions.

"Oh?" It was the only sound Michael could manage. Celina's head was hung low, her hands wringing themselves together in her lap. Joseph stood and placed a hand on her back. Joseph had, at least, taken the time to write something on the back of a business card of his own. Benjamin's contact information, Michael hoped.

"Yes. As you can see, all of this talk is upsetting my wife. We can resume this discussion later, but I think it would be best for now if you left."

Michael sighed quietly as he clicked the button on his recorder once more. He made a note of the time of the end of this particular interview and tucked his supplies back into his bag.

"I understand. I'm sure this has been a difficult process for you, and I appreciate what you've had to offer the investigation."

"Yes, yes. I do hope that you can turn up something," Joseph said.

Joseph guided Michael back to the front door. Celina remained where she had been on the sofa. The light outside of the tall windows was already somewhat dimmer than it had been when he'd arrived.

"Well, thank you for having me," Michael breathed as he waited for Joseph to open the door and escort him out. Joseph's face was stern, serious, for a moment. He handed over the card.

"You're welcome."

He smiled an arrogant smile as he said that, and then Michael was on the front porch with a little piece of paper in his hand and the distant gates were opening to allow him off of the property.

Michael concluded, once and for all, that he did not like Joseph Guzman. At the very least, Andrew had deserved a gentler father.

A/N:
person: you're ugly and stupid
michael: uh ok. ...wow that person was rude but i don't wanna assume that they meant any real harm; i should keep a level head
joseph: h—
michael: fuck you. fuck you and everything you stand for. i hope you get hit by a truck. you are legitimately the worst human being that has ever existed and the world will improve significantly the moment you roll over and fucking die, you complete waste of oxygen

anyway, worthington is one part entirely made up based on a lot of research about various colorado cities, one part exaggerated combo of two cities i lived in, and one part my old private school/church, so if you read anything and are like "whoa what people don't act like that do they??" uhhhhhh do i have some news for you. some specific stories to come in the future!
ALSO i am in fact in an upper east coast state... as i sat here polishing this off and watching hulu i saw like four different educational commercials related to the opioid/heroin epidemic here. So if you somehow don't know what narcan is, it's technically called noloxone and it stops overdoses. apparently you can now buy it in nasal spray form at any pharmacy, often covered by insurance, and keep it on you in case you run into someone overdosing, as a fuckin LYFT DRIVER told me they've started doing bc some stranger overdosed in their passenger's seat!! but for a while, a lot of small time politicians had an issue with making the drug so accessible bc they argued it would just encourage people to OD without any care (one guy literally argued that people are "sitting in front of hospitals and overdosing over and over again"). thankfully, the law in my state currently HAS changed for the better. if you see someone overdosing you can call 911 and no one will get in any legal trouble for the drugs, and in fact you can be penalized for seeing it and NOT calling for fear of getting in trouble. it's not really relevant to the story at large, but it's one of the only "local politics" kinds of subjects that i know well enough to include in that town hall part while getting the overall point across! :'D the point being that the city's politicians and institutions care more about money and appearances and being stubborn than adapting to the times and helping the disenfranchised.