Micah’s hand stills, and he gives Ezra a sharp look. “Where did you say you were from?”
Ezra raises his chin like he’s not going to answer, then spits out, “Arkansas.”
“Okay, so the South. Are you, like, a sin eater or something?”
“No.” Ezra pushes back from the table. “Gross. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But I’ve seen you eat—” I get shut down when he stabs me with a glare, then he’s on his feet and headed for the door.
“Seen him eat what?” Geordi asks.
Tossing one last glance over his shoulder—a mournful glance, one filled with heartbreak—Ezra leaves.
What the hell just happened?
“Damon?” Geordi claims my attention. “What have you seen him eat?”
I shrug, way more concerned about Ezra than I am about this idiot. “I don’t know. I’ve caught him praying over dead bodies, and both times he picked something up and ate it.”
“Has he ever said anything to you about being a sin eater?” Geordi’s questions are really starting to work my nerves.
I stand up, done with this whole scene. “I don’t even know what that is.”
“You might want to do some research,” Brandon says. He stands up, a surprising level of concern on his face, given that so far he’s been fairly distant. “And take care of your friend. He’s going to need some help dealing with this.”
“With what?” I don’t even try to sound polite.
The three of them share a glance. “When I first met Ezra at the Brew,” Micah says, “I could tell he had something extra.”
“Extra,” I scoff.
“He’s right,” Geordi says. “Your friend has some level of power, though without talking to him further, we can’t tell what that means.”
Biting back the urge to ask what the fuck he’s talking about, I try for something less rude and nod in his direction. “Sure. I’ll, uh...” Do something helpful. Maybe. Hopefully. Not that I have a clue what that might be.
“Here.” Micah holds out his phone. “Give me your contact info. Find him, talk him off whatever ledge he’s got himself on, and call me.”
I do as I’m told, pretty sure I’d rather eat bugs than talk to any of them again. I need to find Ezra, and I need to figure out what a sin eater is, and I’m not sure of the right order for those two things.
Liar. I need to find Ezra. The rest can take care of itself.
By the time I get outside, he’s gone, which doesn’t surprise me. Now, did he go home or to the closest bar? It’s a Tuesday night and too early for the dance clubs to be open. I head back to Broadway and survey the block.If I was Ezra, where would I want to get my drunk on?
Home. Gotta be. He’s not going to want to deal with people right now.
I take off at a brisk walk, hoping the trip back home will give Ezra time to calm down—assuming he’s at his place. Assuming he’ll let me in. Assuming he’ll speak to me.
That’s a lot of assumptions.
On the way, I shoot Dorinda a text with the victim’s name, along with a request that she both pass it on to McGraw and never ask me how we got it. Immediately I got a???response, which I ignore. I send the name to Mo, too, in case McGraw’s too busy with police stuff to do much with the information.
Something about Ezra’s haunted expression is familiar. It’s the kind of look opposing pitchers get sometimes, when thebatter works them to a full count and has managed to foul off their best stuff. I’ve been that batter, dominating home plate, knowing full well I’m going to make contact with whatever the guy throws at me, and just as sure that he doesn’t know where to go next.
Ezra has been throwing me his best for the last few weeks, trying to keep me away from his truth, and somehow tonight he ran out of pitches.
Or something. Coaches always used to say baseball is like life, but this particular analogy might be a stretch. Ezra’s desperation, though, had a familiar tang.
I jaywalk across Thomas, a block or so from Ezra’s building. It’s damn cold, I’m hungry, and I need a plan. If he doesn’t want to talk to me, he won’t, and there isn’t a lot I’ll be able to do about it. The building has a call-up, so I’ll buzz his room. If he doesn’t answer, I’ll text him that I’m outside. If he doesn’t answer that, I’ll ask him to message me when he’s ready to talk.
