My skin prickles. “Yumi. Tell me.”
“I have a theory. But it’s just a theory.”
“Spit it out.”
“You’d better come over. This is an in-person conversation.”
SIXTEEN
The dog park is mostly empty this morning, just a woman with a jittery white Yorkie and an older man chucking a slobbery tennis ball for a golden retriever. Finn stands near the gate, hoodie tugged over his ears, hands in his pockets as the Williamses’ French bulldog, Rosie, burrows deeper into a bush, whipping her teeny tail like a mini windshield wiper.
“Rosie needs socialization,” Kenya said when she hired him. “She’s a pandemic puppy and she’s never gotten used to other dogs.” So he is at the park every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday with Rosie trying to get her used to other dogs. He might be able to combine walking Rosie and Muffinhead at some point, but Rosie is too skittish at the moment.
As Finn leans back against the chain-link fence that separates the park from a small stream, he goes over what he learned about Crimson Edge on his computer last night.
There was no website, but thanks to a subreddit, he learned that the company on the back of the fancy envelope he found at the Allards’ was the DC area’s premier luxury educationalconsultancy that helped wealthy kids with mediocre grades and scores polish up their admissions package. Their motto was:Where ambition meets acceptance. It all but guaranteed entry to a top twenty school, but according to his research it could cost a lot of money. Like hundreds of thousands. Pretty gross, but he didn’t see what it could have to do with Autumn’s death. Not that he hadn’t spent an hour in bed before he could fall asleep last night trying to think of a connection. He needs her death to be a puzzle that can be worked through if he tries hard enough.
It’s too horrible to think that he might never find out what really happened. That it might have been random.
Finn’s eyes scan the edge of the park, having momentarily lost Rosie. He can’t see the neighborhood pool a few blocks away, but he can hear the sounds of the swim team’s morning practice. Then he spots the dog, rolling in something questionable near the edge of a stand of trees, groaning in ecstasy. Finn crouches and whistles at her, trying to get her attention, but she ignores him. He got lost in his thoughts and now Rosie is covered in mud.
He pulls out a treat from his bag and calls out: “Treat! Rosie!”
The dog’s ears perk up and she runs back, dirt-streaked and panting. Finn clicks the leash onto her collar. He can’t just take her home and leave her in this condition—she’ll need a bath now. Which means they must leave this minute if he plans to swing by the Allards’ and walk Muffinhead and still get to work on time. On the brisk walk back to the Williamses’ house, his phone rings and he takes it only when he sees it’s his mom. If he doesn’t answer, she’ll spiral with worry.
“Hi, honey. I had a bad feeling. Are you okay?” Her words are rushed and frantic, and he can hear the sounds of the diner in the background. The clank of pans, the shouts of the sous-chef.
“I’m perfectly fine. I’m walking one of the dogs.”
“I saw a trans woman was attacked on the street and beaten.”
“You saw that? Where?”
“Well, I didn’tseeit.” Her voice has a note of concession. “I read about it on Facebook.”
He sighs. She spends way too much time on Facebook, a place where her every fear can be exploited. “Where did this happen?”
“In Oklahoma City, right in the middle of the day. Someone posted it in my Mama Bears group. And I started thinking, are you safe?”
As he turns onto the Williamses’ street, he girds himself for a conversation he has had with her dozens of times since he moved to Washington. “I don’t live in Oklahoma City. I live in the DC area, one of the most queer-friendly cities in the country.”
“But what about those two gay men who were harassed at theMacDonald’s?” She emphasizes theMacin McDonald’s.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says as he unlocks the door to Kenya’s house. He actually did hear about that incident, which happened last year in downtown DC, but he doesn’t want to encourage her.
“I can send the link to you.”
“Please don’t.” He lets himself into the Williamses’ foyer but doesn’t let Rosie off the leash, worried she’ll muddy the pristine floors. He scoops her up and heads straight to the bathroom. His mother is on all kinds of Facebook groups. As soon as hecame out his junior year of high school, she joined about a half dozen different groups like TransParent, Sandhills PRIDE, and the Trevor Project.
He was happy she had found community—there were not a lot of families with trans kids in the town he grew up in, where she still lived. But too much time on those pages could turbocharge her anxiety and send it spinning into the stratosphere. She goes through phases where she will spend every waking minute online, encountering clip after clip of horrible things that are happening to trans people all over the world, and spiral even further.
He knows he is lucky. He does appreciate her concerns. Except when she calls him to dump her anxiety on him. “Mom, I’m fine. I’m about to wash a muddy dog inside a million-dollar home.”
“Promise? You’re not still looking into what happened with Autumn, right? You promised you’d stop.”
“I promise. Take a Xanax.”
He shuts the bathroom door and puts Rosie in the bath. She scrambles to get out, her little claws scratching at the porcelain, but he holds on to her leash. “It’s okay, baby,” he coos quietly before turning the water on. “I got to go, Mama. I got a dirty dog to wash.”