The heater clicks over, devastatingly ordinary.
He swallows again, still tasting bile. Still smelling rotting flesh. God, why is that smell always so insistent? Vince feels like it lives in him, sometimes.
“He offed himself,” he manages finally, voice like gravel.
Reza’s eyebrow raises once, so precise it must be a voluntary gesture, but he doesn’t say anything. His lips are very slightly puckered like he’s thinking, full and some faint, dusky shade of red that Vince’s never seen anywhere else.
He pulls Reza’s hand more fully into his lap, bringing his other hand over it. He traces the perfect, blunt edges of Reza’s nails as he speaks. “They had the wrong name for him. Franklin, they said, but it was—Huff. Sam Huff. He.” A breath out to aid in forcing back the memories. The swell of th
