“I just bought them at the church gift store. They’re not anything special.”

“They were special to you.”

Matty’s grin dripped off. His hands, buried in the cardigan’s pockets, balled into fists. “They’re just pictures.”

Nodding, Shaw let the canvases fall back against the wall. He checked the bedroom. He checked the closet. He checked the bathroom. No sign of intruders. No sign of anything except a young man who didn’t own enough hangers and who hadn’t bothered to push his suitcase under the bed all the way.

Shaw moved across the loft to the bank of windows that ran the width of the room. They must have been original, the glass warped and bubbled. Beyond, the last of the sun shattered on the far bank of the Mississippi, throwing red and orange chips of light across a crescent of muddy water. Everything else was in shadow. The muted thrum of traffic marked the end of rush hour.

“Do you like living here?”

“It’s ok.” Then, after a pause, “I have coffee at the farmers market every morning they’re open. That’s nice.”

Shaw leaned closer to the glass; he liked the way his breath fogged the window. He kept waiting.

“They’re not just paintings, ok?” Matty came up behind Shaw, and a hint of something spicy—his cologne? his sweat?—came with him.

“Why don’t you tell me what they are?”

“They’re—” He grimaced. “They’re the whole fucking problem.” That word, fuck, sounded like it jammed sideway in his mouth. “Those paintings? My dad likes those paintings. My dad gave me most of those fucking paintings. And I’m so fucking sick of looking at those fucking paintings that I could—I don’t know. Scream. Slash them up. Throw them into the river. Burn them.”

“Let’s fucking burn them, then.”

Matty dropped onto the sofa, head dropping into his hands. “That would be awesome.”

“Fucking awesome.”

He peered through his fingers; glints of amethyst and a chop of blond hair. “That would be fucking awesome.”

“It’s sounding more and more natural.”

“But you know why I’m not going to do it?”

“I’d like you to tell me.”

“Because my mom and dad are going to come over for Sunday dinner. And so Sunday morning, before I have to get to church for the youth Bible school, I’m going to take down that—that fucking San Francisco picture and hang up all the other fucking ones. Is that the most fucked up thing you’ve ever heard?” He was crying, the tears almost as bright as the amethyst glint of his eyes, but his voice held steady until it broke on the last word.

Shaw dropped onto the sofa next to him. He ran a hand down Matty’s back, feeling the tremors that shook the boy, shushing him, letting Matty cry into his hands until he was ready for—the thought collapsed into dark matter inside Shaw’s head. Until what? He wasn’t sure, but his pulse skyrocketed, and his skin was tight, tight and hot, especially in a line down the center of his chest like an invisible zipper ran there and someone was running it up and down, up and down, the friction enough to generate sparks. Up and down. Up and down. Hot metal friction from the hollow of Shaw’s neck to low in his belly.