Free Racing the Devil by Jaden Terrell

criminology, psychology, and horsemanship. I imagined Frank and Harry poring through my photo albums, thick with photographs of Paulie and Maria. I envisioned them searching my closet, rough hands rifling the pockets of my suits and jeans and the linings of my L.L.Bean shirts.
    And I felt violated.
    Don’t get me wrong. I understood why these things were being done, and why they had to be done. I would have done the same things, in Frank’s place. But that didn’t mean I had to like it.
    Exhaustion has a way of catching up to you, though, and finally I sank into a sleep so deep it verged on coma.
    I didn’t hear when Jay came home, but he must have, because when I awoke, the sun was streaming through my curtains and the house smelled of pancakes and fresh-brewed coffee. By the time I’d showered, shaved, and dressed, breakfast was on the table. Jay was humming some romantic tune, something from an old Bing Crosby flick.
    “Nice night?” I asked.
    “God, yes.” His grin was childlike, beatific. I thought he looked a little wan without the makeup, but the lesions seemed a little less noticeable than they had the week before. “He’s incredible, Jared. Smart, funny, unbelievably handsome. And, of course, the sex was incredible.”
    I tried not to envision that. “Well. Good. Good for you. When are you going to see him again?”
    He brought a creamer brimming with warm syrup to the table and set it in front of me. “He’s going to call me tonight.”
    “Ah.”
    He looked pained. “Don’t give me, ‘ah.’ He said he’d call, he’ll call. You have no idea what a fabulous time we had last night.”
    “I know. I hope he calls.”
    He took a bite of pancake and washed it down with a swig of juice and a pill. He took twenty or thirty pills a day, some every few hours, some on an empty stomach, some with meals. Along with his meds, he took Shaklee food supplements by the handful: C, E, beta-carotene, garlic, calcium, a multivitamin, and who knew what all, washed down with a soy protein drink and an ungodly blend of homemade juices. The mixture this morning was carrot, celery, and beet juices, sweetened with orange and pineapple.
    It wasn’t bad.
    We steered away from the subject of Mr. Perfect and moved on to more pragmatic matters. My truck had been impounded, and it might be weeks before I got it back. So if I was going to investigate Amy Hartwell’s homicide, I was going to need wheels.
    “Oh, please.” Jay rolled his eyes. “Give me a real problem. You can just drive mine.” He worked from home these days and rarely drove his silver Buick LeSabre. It was tempting, but a man can only take so many favors.
    “You’ve done enough already. Randall told me you helped with the bail. Thanks for that too, by the way.”
    He shrugged. “What are friends for? I know you’d do the same for me. Besides, with you gone, who would I cook and clean for?”
    “I don’t ask you to do that.”
    He sighed, touched my forearm gently. I tried not to let it make me uncomfortable, but it was hard not to think of it as seductive. “Honey, I want to do that. It makes me feel needed.”
    “Jay . . .”
    “Ssshhh.” He moved his hand from my arm and pressed a finger to his lips. “Don’t say it. I know what you are, and what I am. And I know there is no way in this world that you’re ever going to feel about me the way I feel about you. But I like to think that when I . . . when the end comes, you’ll be here.”
    I toyed with my fork, the pancakes suddenly sodden and unappealing. “You know I will,” I mumbled. I wanted to tell him that would be years from now. I wanted to tell him there might even be a cure by then. But we both knew the odds on that.
    “All right, then. If you’d do that for me, the least I can do is cook you a few meals. Besides, it’s good for me. If it were only me, I might subsist on cold cereal and potato chips.”
    I forced a laugh. “You? The semi-vegetarian gourmet?”
    “Ah, yes.” His