"Mal," Peter whispers.
"I know. I'll be serious now." Leight forces all emotion out of his face. "It has to be a man, strong and tall and young, because of the physical demands of the murders. It has to be a local because no outsider would choose Claymore, California, for a killing spree."
"It has to be a psychopath because no one else becomes a serial killer without motive." He pauses for a moment. "He needs to have access to a large, sharp, smooth blade and a place to burn the rest of the body."
Then he stops, his eyes come back into focus, and he looks straight at Peter. "That shoplifting notation on your record—how did it happen?"
Peter blinks. "How exactly do you know about that? It was a misunderstanding; it was supposed to be erased."
"Nothing is ever erased," Leight replies cryptically. "All right. IF you must know, I ran a background check before you moved in."
He raises an eyebrow "Seriously, Mal?"
"Perfectly serious. Now, please answer the question."
"Fine," Peter says. He wants to be angry, or at least mildly annoyed, but he can't get the emotions to stick.
"We were sixteen. There was nothing to do in this town, so everyone had to find entertainment in creative ways. Most people experimented with drugs or sex.."
"Some pulled pranks. We were at the mall one day, and Ryan slipped a watch into my pocket as a joke. I got caught. I said that I hadn't done it, that it was a misunderstanding, and luckily security footage corroborated my story. The arrest wasn't supposed to be on my record."
"Ryan Chatterley?"
"Yes." Peter is starting to feel faintly nauseous.
"Brilliant." Leight starts to stand up. "Let's go do the wrap-up."
"What?"
"I've solved the case; I thought it was obvious."
"Mal, you can't be serious. The shoplifting story—it's anecdotal. It doesn't mean anything. You can't possibly have hard evidence."
"No, I don't have any hard evidence," Leight shrugs, thoroughly untroubled. "But I do know where to find the evidence."
Peter had forgotten how much he hated the back of Sheriff Winters's car. Especially when Leight's riding shotgun and Rachel is next to him.
"Explain this again," Sheriff Winters orders as he parks the car in the parking lot of the state park.
Patiently, Leight explains, "Jacob McPherson went running here each morning. We're going to follow the trail."
So they get out of the car. They have a few choices of paths. Leight crouches near the dirt and picks the one in the middle. They walk along it in perfect silence for over two miles.
Leight stops abruptly. "Here," he announces. Then he veers off the path and begins walking quickly through the tall grass. Then he picks up his pace to a brisk jog.
It's all Peter and the others can do to keep up. Soon they're running, and it isn't difficult to figure out where they're going. They're running down a slope, right toward the bank of Claymore Lake.
(It's hardly fit to be called anything but a pond in Peter's opinion, but no one's ever really cared about his opinion.)
The grass turns into dirt. The dirt turns into sand. The sand is splattered with blood. And that's when they see the circle of stones on the ground surrounding a pile of charred logs, which are covered in heaps gray-white ash. The embers are still hot.
"Did Claymore ride his horse this morning?" Leight asks Winters. He's perfectly calm and maybe a little smug.
Wordlessly, Winters nods.
Leight points to a series of indentations in the sand. "Hoof marks."
Then he walks around the stone circle. There's a sword standing straight up, its tip buried in the sand. The blood-speckled blade has the slightest hint of a curve; the hilt is simple and gold.
"You'll find that this is a Model 1850 Staff and Field Officers' Sword, standard issue during the Civil War. Do you recognize it, Ms. Chatterley?"
Brow furrowed, she nods.
"To whom does it belong?"
She seems to debate answering. Finally, she glares at Leight and answers, "My brother."
Leight smiles and turns his attention back to Winters. "I believe you'll find Mr. Chatterley's prints on the hilt."
It takes Winters a full thirty seconds to swallow his shock and form words. "Why would Ryan Chatterley do something like this?"
"I'll let Ms. Chatterley answer that."
All eyes turn to Rachel, whose face is pale but free of all emotion. Grimly, she says, "He thought it would make him feel something."
Leight grimaces. "And there it is."
"Oh dear," Evelyn says as she sips her English breakfast tea daintily. "I'll have to call Debbie Claymore right away. And Virginia Chatterley, too, of course, but on earth will I say to her? Is there protocol for a situation like this? What does one say to the mother of a murderer?"
"I don't believe Emily Post would associate with the mothers of murderers, dear," Andrew retorts to his wife.
Peter and Leight are seated on the couch across from them in the parlor, discussing the case.
"I do hope Rachel isn't too upset about any of this," Evelyn continues.
"Well, I suppose she must be, but I certainly hope she's recovered by this evening. It would be such a shame to let something this unfortunate ruin your date." She says this looking directly at Peter.
And suddenly, the tightness has returned to Peter's chest. He's full of tension. His heart is beating irregularly. He can't breathe properly. His thoughts are fuzzy. He can't keep lying.
Without making a conscious decision, Peter finds himself saying, "I'm not going to take Rachel to dinner, Mother."
Evelyn crinkles her nose dismissively "Why of course you are, Peter. You asked her dinner, so you're going to take her to dinner."
She takes another sip of her tea. "I think it'd be just lovely for the two of you to get back together now that you've grown up and had your youthful adventures."
"Mother," he tries again, anger and frustration welling up in his throat, "I will never get back together with Rachel."
She frowns at him. "Why ever not? You two are lovely together. I know things didn't end well before, but you were both young. It's only decent for you to give her another chance."
"Even if there wasn't a history of her breaking my heart," Peter grates out, "I wouldn't date her."
Evelyn looks sufficiently horrified.
Surprisingly, it's Andrew who takes up the baton. "Now why would that be, son?"
There's a bit of a teasing lilt to the question, something of a silent chuckle.
Peter is struck by the sudden terrifying thought that his father knows. He stares at the man of so few words, wondering how on earth he could have figured it out.
He isn't even sure. Then he looks at Leight, who is steadily sipping his coffee in an effort not to react to anything.
And suddenly, as thoroughly terrified as he is, Peter knows what he is going to do.
He takes a deep breath to steady himself. Then he looks his mother straight in the eye.
"I wouldn't date Rachel or anyone else because I'm in love with someone."
Evelyn gasps. "You told me you weren't in a relationship!" she scowls, full of accusation.
"Is this one of those silly unrequited love situations?"
"No," Peter shakes his head firmly. "I'm in a committed relationship. I have been for a few months."
"You lied to me!"
"No, I didn't, not really." Peter takes another deep breath. "I let Sissy believe what she wanted to believe, but I didn't lie to you. There's no woman."
"Peter Eric Grayson," Evelyn growls, "say what you mean this instant!"
"I'm trying to tell you that I'm at least a four or a five on the Kinsey scale."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," Andrew clarifies with that oddly humorous tone, "that Peter is trying to tell us he's gay."
Evelyn is, for once, completely speechless.
Leight sets his coffee mug on the coffee table with a dull thud. "I should leave," he says, his nervousness so uncharacteristic.
"No," Peter reaches for his hand and meets Leight's eyes, pleading with his own, "please stay. There's more I want to say—to all of you."
As Leight sits back down, Peter squeezes his hand tighter, and turns back to his parents.
"I may as well say it straight," he almost laughs at his own (wholly unintentional) pun, "or rather not, as the case may be. Dad's right. I'm gay, or at least bisexual, though Rachel's the only woman I've had a serious interest in, as misguided as that was."
Evelyn opens her mouth to say something, but no words come out.
Peter shakes his head before she can try again. "There's more."
He stops for a moment to gather his thoughts. Then he feels Leight's fingers tighten around his own, and he knows that this undeniably right.
He's doing the right thing, the best thing, the important thing, and he's not going to stop just because his mother looks as if she wants to vomit. "When I arranged this trip and said that I wanted to bring Mal because he's my 'partner,' I meant it."
"You meant what?" Evelyn asks blankly. Clearly, she's in some phase of denial.
"I meant that Mal is my partner," Peter says, and he feels his tension dissipating, "in every sense of the word."
He's starting to feel that unbearable lightness that may or may not be a foreign sense of freedom.
"You work together," Evelyn states.
"We sleep together."
"You share an apartment." She still looks clueless. She's stubborn in her denial. She refuses to accept what he's trying to tell her.
"Evelyn," Andrew steps in, placing a comforting hand on his wife's arm, "they're fucking."
"You're… experimenting?" She's so hopelessly lost.
"No, Mom." Peter takes the deepest breath, preparing for the deepest plunge. He looks at Leight. "I love him."
"And I love Peter," Leight tells them, and it's clear from the conviction in his voice that he means it.
And then Evelyn Grayson promptly faints.
They decide to leave Claymore early. Once they're packed and ready, they stand in the foyer with Andrew as they wait for the town car to arrive.
"Don't worry about your mother," Andrew says. Because, of course, her absence is conspicuous.
"She'll come around. I know she will. She just needs time. It has nothing to do with you," he says to Leight. "It's the whole idea that she's having trouble with."
Leight nods, full of understanding.
Peter, however, bites his lip. "Dad, can I ask you something?"
Andrew nods.
"Did you know?"
Andrew nods again. "I had my suspicions when you used the word 'partner.' You're always so careful with words; I didn't think you'd say something like that unless you meant it. Well, I didn't really think you'd bring someone here if it was just work."
He pauses, looks back and forth between them. "I was sure when I saw you together. It's in the way you look at each other."
"And." And there's one more question Peter has been meaning to ask all along but hasn't had the courage to voice. If he came out, he thinks, he has the courage to ask this follow-up question. "You're okay with it?"
"Peter," Andrew smiles warmly, that lilting humor ever-present. "Do you remember that speech your mother and I gave you about we would always love you, no matter what? Those weren't just empty platitudes. We want you to be happy."
"I am," he smiles. "Really. Thanks, Dad. For everything."
The town car pulls into the driveway. Andrew claps them each on the shoulder once before sending them off. They get in and begin the long journey home.
Peter looks up when Leight puts his hand on Peter's thigh.
"Thank you," Leight says, his eyes communicating what his words can't.
There are a million things Peter thinks to say. You're welcome. I did it for myself, not for you. It was time. I meant it. They're all true, but he settles for the truest thought he can think. "I love you."
"It's mutual."
"I know." And for once, he does.
.
.