“Yeah, actually,” I answered through the pile of sand that had been dumped into my mouth at some point. I swallowed, trying to wet my throat and instead just gulping loudly.

“Who?”

“Franky. He was one of my first boyfriends. He didn’t want to come out of the closet for me, though. We broke up—it was pretty nasty. He said some fucked-up shit, but nothing as fucked-up as that box.”

Jake made a “hmm” sound as he drove us down a tree-lined street, a neighborhood of flipped homes surrounding us, looking like they’d all been plucked out of the same HGTV makeover catalogue. White stone, black trim, bright doors. All of their blinds shut, TV light showing through the cracks. Everyone winding down after a day of routines and responsibilities, completely unaware of the chaotic storm of crap that was currently driving past their homes.

“When’s the last time you two spoke?”

“Like a year ago.”

“And he lives around here?”

I nod, fidgeting with the A/C vent so that the cool air blew directly into my face. “Down in Midtown. He’s got a wife now. I don’t know why he’d all of a sudden do this.”

“Do you know his wife?” Jake asked. He slowed down as he took a right, pulling into the long driveway of a home that had still managed to retain some of its original bones without being copy-and-pasted from the houses next door. There were long windows and an awning that came out over a wide porch, a variety of potted plants hanging from the railing. It seemed very well taken care of, reminding me of just how badly my own home needed a pressure washing and a couple of paint touch-ups.

“I’ve only met her once. She was one of his friends when we were dating. Of course, she had no idea Franky and I were together at the time. She comes from a big televangelist family, tons of money, and probably an equal amount of skeletons in her closet… There was one time, though. I think she found a text or something between Franky and me. We were already broken up, but he kept our messages for some reason. I woke up to five missed calls from her and two extremely angry voicemails telling me to stop corrupting Franky. I never returned her call.”

“Good,” Jake said, parking his car and turning off the engine, silence filling the space. “Do you still have the voicemails?”

“I do.”

“Give them to the police, then. You never know.”

“And what about that Mason guy? What’s his deal?” Jake asked.

I shrugged. “He moved into the neighborhood about four months ago. Nice guy, always baking and always giving me something. He’s apparently from Philly. He’s gay, too. I think his partner passed last year from cancer.”

Jake nodded and cracked his knuckles.