“Use the headphones, okay?”

Dean looked at him in that kind way of his, and Quentin could almost see the sentences scrolling through his head, the helpful adages and encouraging words thumbed through and rejected. “There’s a six-pack in the fridge,” Dean said, finally. The most perfect thing he could have possibly come up with. “I just bought it.”

“I love you.”

As Dean put on the headphones, Quentin went into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and grabbed himself a bottle and cracked it open—a nice IPA, cold and bitter as Reg Sharkey’s heart. He pulled a bottle of Cabernet out of the wine cabinet, uncorked it, and poured Dean a glass, and brought both drinks into the living room, where Dean was just removing the headphones. Finished already.

Quentin said, “See what I mean?”

Dean took a long gulp of wine, draining nearly half the glass, which seemed to Quentin more a stall tactic than anything else. “He called you fake news,” he said. “I mean who actually says that when they’re not intending to be ironic?”

Quentin sighed. “It’s funny. People are so much more complicated than characters in movies. But that complexity is what makes them so much less interesting.”

“What do you mean?”

“In the real world, you can be both a grieving father and a complete asshole—as Gramps here proves,” he said. “But sadly, that combo makes for shitty radio.”

Dean looked at him. “Did you ever tell him about your mom?”

Quentin shook his head.

“You could go back. You could tell him. Not like he deserves to know, but . . . I mean . . . He should be told, don’t you think?”

“Dean.”

“He’ll see how much damage he’s caused.”

Quentin cringed. “I’m not going back. Ever.”

“You said you need closure.”

“No, honey. You said I need closure.”

There was a long pause, Dean with those sad, soft blue eyes, Quentin trying to avoid his gaze.

You’re too good for me. That’s the problem. Quentin would have said it aloud, if it wasn’t so true. “I think I may have to pull the plug on this podcast.”

“Come on. There are tons of ways to tell a story. You’ve said that yourself.”

“But this is my story.”

“It still can be,” Dean said. “You just need a different way in. Isn’t there a book about the Inland Empire murders?”

“Only one that’s worth reading. A cheesy paperback put out by a tabloid that came out right after the Gideon fire. They based the TV movie on it.”

“So? Maybe there’s something in the book you could investigate.”

Quentin shook his head. “It’s been out of print for years.”

Dean sighed. “Oh . . . Wait.” He reached into the side pocket of the laptop bag, removed the Closure burner phone and waved it around like a prize.