“Search his room,” Damon interjected. “Might find something. Some kinda clue to point out where he’s going. Luke said he takes his bag with him, so what’s he putting in that damned thing that he needs when he’s sneaking out?”
“That, too, is an interesting thing to contemplate.” Walden leaned back in his chair, somehow managing to slouch while still maintaining perfect posture and a rod-stiff spine, all angles inside the neat lines of his black wool knit suit. “I take it Mr. Maddow is currently hovering outside, wondering if he’s about to face consequences.”
Rian nodded. “He’s pretty worried.”
Walden’s lips thinned, before he called, “Mr. Maddow.” His voice turned stern. “Please come inside.”
Several seconds passed before the door creaked slowly open, just enough for Luke’s head to lean inside; he watched Walden like he was looking at some kind of poisonous animal he couldn’t quite identify.
“...am I in trouble?”
“No,” Walden said, flicking his fingers imperiously. “None at all. We’ll pretend this conversation never happened. You were never here. Understood?”
Luke exhaled, then stepped inside, nudging the door closed and leaning against it with his hands behind his back, gripping the knob. “Yeah. That’s good.”
Walden cocked a brow. “Then please, tell me what you told Mr. Falwell and Mr. Louis.”
“Well...”
While Luke explained again, straggling out his words, Rian retreated to lean against the wall next to the door, listening; Damon joined him, and Rian gave him a grateful look as they rested arm to arm, before turning back to following everything Luke was saying. The same story; the same details; nothing changing. Not that he’d thought Luke was lying, when he’d have no reason to if he was so worried for his friend and roommate, but the consistency of it even under Walden’s drilling stare was reassuring.
But then Luke finished, “...and when he comes back, he’s dirty all over except his clothes, and he smells real bad. Like he’s been swimming in... I don’t know. Beer, I guess, but he ain’t drunk. Sometimes other stuff.” He made a face. “Like, sharper, heavier.”
Rian came to attention, drawing in a breath.
That was a detail Luke had left off before.
Damon’s tight expression said his train of thought wasn’t far off from Rian’s. “Whiskey?” Damon supplied. “Or like, rum?”
Luke snorted. “You think I know what whiskey or rum smell like?” he said dryly. “My family’s Seventh Day Adventist. Dry house, baby, and that’s a line my ass don’t cross.”
“A student who hasn’t tried to steal a taste of hard liquor,” Walden said with a cool, sardonic lilt. “I believe we’ve found the eighth wonder of the world.”
Luke narrowed his eyes. “You said this conversation didn’t happen, right?” he asked, and Walden nodded briefly.
“Correct.”
A smirk spread Luke’s lips. “Then I’m not gonna get in trouble for telling you what an asshole you are, huh, Mr. Walden?”
Walden’s eyes narrowed. “I would suggest not pressing your luck.” With a deep sigh, he laced his fingers together. “Instead, I would also suggest you cooperate a little longer, and assist these gentlemen in searching your room.”
Now it was Luke’s turn to sigh. “Great. Now everyone’s gonna know I’m a snitch.”
“We’ll keep a low profile,” Damon promised, and curled a hand to Luke’s shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s go take a look.”
Walden didn’t say anything until the door was open and they’d started to file outside, Rian bringing up the rear—only to freeze as that icy, silken voice turned almost too pleasant, enough to send shivers down his spine.
“Oh, and Mr. Falwell?” Walden said.
Wincing, Rian glanced back. “...yes...?”
Glacial eyes speared into him, Walden’s jaw set in a hard and irritated line. “The paint cups are still in the sink.”
Oops.
“Sorry,” Rian said faintly. “I’ll, um...tonight?”
“See that you do,” Walden bit off. “Now get out of my office, and don’t come back.”
Chapter Sixteen
True to his word, Damon tried to keep a low profile about slipping into Luke and Chris’s room—hanging around the corner of the hall with Rian while Luke unlocked the door, and waiting until the corridor was empty before they went scurrying down the floorboards to duck into the large shared room afforded to students.
He’d almost never had any reason to enter student quarters when he rarely drew rotation for monthly room inspections, but he didn’t know if it was a point of bitterness or a point of amusement that the room was almost three times the size of his own; he just didn’t need that kind of space, especially when between Luke and Chris they’d filled it with...
A hell of a lot of mess.
And Damon was pretty damned sure that inspections were next weekend.
Luke was quick to move in front of the bed on the right side of the cluttered room, strewn with clothes everywhere, books, junk food packages, a few musical instruments, posters, gaming devices. He spread his arms, giving them both wary looks.
“My side,” he said. “Stay out.” He nodded toward the other bed on the opposite side of the room, the blue coverlet rumpled and the pillows askew, a few old junior high football trophies on the shelf above the headboard. “That’s all Chris’s stuff. Left side of the closet’s his, too.”
Damon glanced at Rian, who stared at the room in clear dismay. “Where you wanna start, Falwell?”
“With a vacuum cleaner,” Rian said hollowly, before shaking his head. “I’ll, um, take the closet?”
“Sure. I guess I’ll just take...” Damon swept the room with a look. “Everything else.”
“Trust me,” Rian said as he crossed to the large sliding double door that opened into the closet and pulled it aside, staring with wide eyes and slack lips at the veritable wall of crap the door was barely holding in, “I think you got the easy job. Wish me luck; I’m going in.”
And with that, Rian literally pinched his nose like he was about to dive underwater, and pushed his way into the bristling mess of sports equipment and balled up clothing and God only knew what else. Damon watched him burrow in with a small smile, then shook his head and set to work himself.
For long minutes the only sounds were those of the grinding as the interlocked and delicately balanced mess in the closet shifted, Rian’s faint grunts of exertion, and Damon tossing books and things about as he rummaged under the mattress, in the desk drawers, inside the dresser drawers, even digging out Chris’s under-bed storage crates. He found books—a few magazines with explicit covers that Chris was definitely not supposed to have at school, and that Damon wished he could unsee—and clothing, Chris’s football uniform stuffed under the mattress like he was ashamed of it, something that looked like old letters from a girl that were dated from when Chris would’ve been in middle school, numbers in the right hand corner in a looping, feminine, youthfully clumsy hand.