"Awake at last, and here I was afraid I’d have to rouse you." Richard sat next to him and Mitch closed his eyes tighter, trying to block out the sight of the still fully clothed man who had forced him to take drugs and suck his cock and fuck his friends. Mitch felt his stomach heave a little, but managed to push it down.

"Mitchell-dear?" Mitch forced his eyes open, looking up at Richard in what he hoped was a blank expression. In truth, he was scared witless. "I know you’re a little shocked by everything that’s going on, but I want you to know that I’d never hurt one of my boys. In a few months I’ll take you back to the club and you can go home. Until then, you should try and enjoy yourself. We’ll order whatever you want to eat, if there’s a movie or game you want to play, I’ll get that, too, you can even keep it when you leave. I’ll be your sugar-daddy." He ruffled Mitch’s hair in affection and Mitch fought not to pull away. "But don’t even think about going to the authorities. My attorneys will make you out to be the University Campus Slut and my friends will vouch that you were here willingly."

Mitch didn’t make a sound as Richard pried his fingers from the pillow and gripped his wrists, yanking him to his feet. "Now, we’re going to have to get you in the shower and washed up before..." His voiced trailed off and his grip on Mitch’s wrists tightened. "Oh, bloody hell. Come on."

Detached, he noted that Richard didn’t sounded more concerned and worried than angry and he looked back at the bed, noticing a good amount of blood staining the sheets where he’d been laying. Richard let go of one of his wrists and took his chin, forcing him to look away. "Into the bathroom."

When the actor had been out that afternoon, Mitch had gone in the bathroom a few times, both to use it and to toss the contents of the drawers around, looking for anything that would help him escape. It was a good sized room with a standing shower and a Jacuzzi. A second door led to a toilet and the vanity had a black granite counter with a sink set into it. The contents of the white cabinets and drawers had been overturned onto the floor earlier that afternoon and Richard kicked them out of the way as he dragged the still stunned boy towards the shower.

Mitch couldn’t think properly. The evening was replaying over and over in his head and it seemed so much worse now than it had then, not that he’d been pleased at the time, but at least the drug had made him pliant, made it hard for him to really fight or think. Vaguely he heard Richard turn on the tap and felt himself being shoved forward and into a spray of water.

With a shriek, he tried to push out again, but Richard crowded him back against a wall, not bothering to take off his own clothes, and shut the door. Mitch tried to fight against him, but every movement hurt him and as he stood there, soaking wet, it was so... real. He stopped fighting and clutched at Richard, burying his face in the wet shirt, desperate for some kind of comfort.

Richard hesitantly put his arms around Mitch and held him awkwardly. "Hey, are you okay?"

The realization of who he was holding onto hit him full force and he shoved back, taking Richard by surprise. Without the support, however, he fell down and screamed a little as his arse hit the floor. The water pouring into the drain was red with his blood and before he realized what he was doing, Mitch’s stomach heaved and he vomited onto the floor.

"Shite!" Richard side stepped the mess and lowered onto his knees. "Mitchell-dear."

A sob broke free and Mitch bit his tongue, closing his throat as the tears started to pour down his face. He didn’t want to cry, not in front of Richard, his rapist. He didn’t want to be that weak, but there wasn’t anything he could do to stop it. It was like a waterfall cascading down his face and as a second sob tore from his throat, he buried his face in his hands, letting them come, no longer caring that Richard was the one holding him, as long as he wasn’t alone.

At some point, Richard turned the water off and they sat on the floor, wet and cold in the little shower. Mitch cried so hard his chest hurt and Richard stroking wet hair, mumbling that it was okay, asking what was wrong, which only made it worse. Eventually the tears had run out, although Mitch still couldn’t bring himself to move. Even the smallest movement was a painful reminder of the evening’s events. Richard frowned down at him, "We should get dried off."

Mitch shook his head, and held on tighter, hoping to stall having to leave the illusion of comfort. Richard sighed and kept stroking his hair. "Just a little while longer, then."

*****

"...went into hysterics, I don’t even know."

Mitch blearily opened his eyes and squinted through the bright light to see Richard, shoving DVD’s and games back on the shelves and talking into his cell phone in a hushed whisper.

"No, not like the others, I’ve never seen anything... exactly... no, Paul, would you lay off that, already? Oh, and the sheets are absolutely ruined. Do you think you could pick some up for me today on your way over? I don’t want to leave him alone again just yet."

Stiffly, Mitch sat up, unable to stop himself from gasping at the sharp pain in his rear. Richard looked over and his face went from slightly annoyed to blank as he stared at the boy on his bed. Mitch quickly looked away, conscious that his head, chest and throat now hurt along with the rest of him. "Paul... Paul! I’ll call you back la.... okay, fine, just don’t forget the sheets."

He hung up the phone and walked over, sitting at the edge of the bed. He cast Mitchell and winning smile, the kind reserved for the pretty girls he rescued in all his films. "Feeling better this morning?"

Tentatively, Mitch shook his head. If anything, he felt worse. There wasn’t a single muscle in his body that didn’t ache. Richard reached over and ruffled his hair. "Lay back down, Paul’ll be over with pain killers in a few and I’ve got a lot of cleaning to do. Oh, do you want breakfast? Maybe some juice?"

When Mitch shook his head again, Richard shrugged, going back to what he’d been doing. "So, you don’t do that kind of thing often, do you?"

Mitch screwed his brows together, still not sure he wanted to talk, but Richard got the message and chuckled lightheartedly. "Gang banging. Most of the boys at Humps’ll fuck anything that walks through the door and they’ll fuck as many as possible before they’re kicked out for the night. The way you bled.... well, I’m just guessing you were probably a bit new to the whole scene at Humps."

It got quiet while Mitch contemplated what he wanted to say - if he wanted to say anything. Richard looked at the game in his hand for a second before tossing it in the trash, apparently deciding it wasn’t worth keeping. Finally, Mitch forced himself to speak, "I..." Richard looked back, surprised. For a moment, Mitch considered not continuing, but he’d already started. "I’d never."

"Never...?" Then Richard’s eyes lit up in understanding and his eyebrows shot up his forehead, "Never?!" Mitch shook his head, afraid to open his mouth again. "But you’re nineteen. How can you have... well, never have had sex, especially going to Humps. I mean, people don’t go there unless they’re looking for a lot of quick meaningless shagging."

Mitch shrugged and cowered back under the quilts, drawing them over his naked body protectively. He didn’t know how to explain that he was fifteen and he’d only gone because it was his birthday and he’d just wanted to do something stupid. Stupid, right, like getting himself abducted by a psychotic actor and his equally deranged friends. He should have just gotten a tattoo like Cynthia had suggested.

Richard was still staring at him in shock when someone knocked on his door. If he was concerned about who it was, he didn’t show it. Instead, he opened it wide and Mitch’s frown deepened as he saw it was Paul, holding a set of plastic wrapped white sheets in one hand and a brown prescription bottle in the other. "I took my mom’s spares, she never uses them, but you’ll have to buy me another set so I can put them back."

Richard kissed Paul on the mouth quickly and winked. "You’re a life saver. So, when’s your big date?"

Paul glanced at the bed, nervously eyeing the trembling little figure huddled in the quilts. "Not till later. I told her I’d pick her up at nine."

"Nine? Where are you taking her?"

"Restaurant. Theater. I don’t know. I’m not very good at dating."

Richard shrugged and tossed the unopened sheets on the bed before going back to cleaning the mess off his floor. "Think you can handle him while I finish this?"

Paul nodded and shoved the pills in his pocket before heading to the small fridge and pulling out a can of Coke. Every time he looked at the kid, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was looking at his kid brother. Not that he thought Mitchell was anywhere near that young, but the ID had been fake, so he was at least under drinking age. Maybe seventeen. Seventeen wouldn’t be so bad. If anyone found out it would hurt Richard’s career, but it wouldn’t destroy it.

Holding the soda up, he popped the top and took a long gulp before handing it over to the kid. Richard’s boys were often afraid to take anything they hadn’t seen someone else take first. Probably due to the fact that they’d just been drugged and kidnaped, but either way it meant that if Paul wanted him to take the medicine, he’d have to take it first. Holding up the bottle, he opened it and emptied the four identical pills into his palm. Two were Tylenol 3 with codeine, the other two were just over the counter Tylenol.

Taking the two Tylenol, he put them in his mouth and swallowed them before holding out the remaining two pills for the boy. "Tylenol 3, you know what that is?"

Apparently he did, because he took it from Paul and downed them without further hesitation. Paul looked around the room at the clothes strewn on the floor near the closet. "Hey, Richard, you got something I can give the kid to wear?"

Richard shrugged and reached over, combing through the clothes next to him until he came up with a t-shirt, "Here, and there’s a pair of sweat pants on the top shel... well, probably on the floor, actually."

Paul couldn’t help laughing at the helpless dismay on Richard’s face at the disorganization of his room. Ever since they’d been little kids at boarding school, Richard had been positively anal about keeping his things organized. He always kept his clothes hung on hangers or folded neatly on the top shelves of his closet. Of all the boys Richard had brought home, Mitchell had done the most damage by far. Even Greg, the American tourist with the violent temper, hadn’t been this bad.

Rummaging through the pants on the floor just inside the closet, he found a pair of brown sweat pants and held them up. "Got them." Richard had grown out of them years ago, but he usually kept a few articles of his outgrown clothes around, just in case.

Mitchell took them eagerly, pulling them on under the covers and then pulled the quilt tightly back over himself. Paul sat down, looking at him sideways, "Cold?" The kid shook his head, but didn’t look over. "Want to watch the tellie?" There was a brief moment of hesitation and then a shrug.

Paul took that as yes. "Richard, hand me the remote. You know, while you’re down there." Richard grunted and tossed it over, too busy checking one of his discs for scratches to really care. "What should we watch, Mitch?"

He flipped it on, watching the kid sitting next to him more than the television. Mitchell’s face suddenly went sheet white and his knuckles tightened on the quilt. Paul looked over and felt the blood drain from his own face as he fumbled with the volume.

"...personal friends of this show for..."

Richard still wasn’t watching and Paul quickly hit the reverse button on the Tivo controller to rewind it. "Richard."

"Paul, I’m busy. I think he’s ruined Cruel Intentions."

"Richard!"

"What?! I love that movie."

He hit play and Richard looked over. "Why am I watching something about an old lady’s cat?"

Paul ignored the urge to hit his friend in the back of the head as the segment ended and went back to the news crew in the studio. "In other news, fifteen-year-old Mitchell Dearing went missing two days ago."

Richard’s jaw dropped as they flashed a picture of Mitchell in a grey school uniform, smiling at the camera with bright, trusting eyes.

"Mitchell lives in the city of Hatfield, just outside of London with his parents." His neighborhood came on screen, and the camera looked around at all the little houses before focusing in on his parent’s home, with its neatly trimmed yard. "Today would have been his fifteenth birthday. However, yesterday morning, his parents woke up to find his room empty and the window open."

It changed to his parents, standing in the front yard. A large man that was most likely Mitchell’s father had an arm around a smallish woman while she spoke to the camera, visibly shaking with the effort not to cry. "We went to bed at eight and I got up at five, as usual. I didn’t see or hear anything suspicious, but when I went to get him up at six, he wasn’t in his room. I called his friends, but they... they haven’t heard from him. We just want to know that he’s okay."

The camera cut to a girl with bleach blond hair and faded blue highlights, wearing a grey uniform, and standing outside of a slightly rundown looking school. "We talked the other day and he said something about us going into town on the weekend to celebrate his birthday. He wanted to do something stupid, something that he’d regret later..." she sniffed, "I told him to get a tattoo of a butterfly on his ankle and he thought it sounded silly, but..." tears started falling down her face and her eyes shifted away from the camera for a moment. Another boy came onto screen and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her away from the media.

They went back to the parents and Paul was struck with a vague sense of deja-vu. The father stood straighter, "We’ll be cooperating fully with the Hertforshire home office police. I have faith that my men can bring my son home safely."

The reporter came back on screen, a woman with tightly clipped blonde hair and a severe black suit, who seemed intent on shuffling papers around on her desk while she spoke. "The police have asked that anyone with information please call this number." The picture of him flashed on screen again, this time with a phone number bellow it in bold, black letters. The picture moved to the corner of the screen and the woman looked at the man sitting next to her. "Police Chief Dearing and his family have, of course, been very close, personal friends of this show for many years and we also will be cooperating in the search for their son."

The man nodded, looking at the camera. "Again, here’s the number to call if you have any information. We’ll be covering the story until Mitchell has been found and, if you’re watching, Mitch, hang in there, we’ll have your presents waiting when you get home."

Beside him, he felt Mitchell jerk a little, giving a muffled noise that sounded like something between a laugh and a cry. Paul was still staring at the screen when he saw Richard fly past him, backhanding Mitchell into the wall. "You little twat, what were you thinking?!"

Paul grabbed Richard around the shoulders as he drew back for another blow. "Stop it!" Richard yanked free and Mitchell managed to cover his head just in time to avoid being punched in the ear. "Richard!" He pulled him back and turned him around, shoving his friend towards the door. "Run it off."

"Bugger that, I’m going to kill the sodding little cunt." Paul pushed Richard back when he advanced again and stood his ground, glaring back sternly. Finally, Richard gave a frustrated grunt and turned around, storming out the door and slamming it behind him.

Paul waited for several minutes, until he’d heard the footsteps descend the stairs outside, before finally turning back to the boy on the bed. Mitchell was huddled in a silent ball, as if waiting for Paul to turn on him next.

With a deep breath, he pulled the boy up, ignoring the protests. "Come on, now, let’s have a look."

Finally, he managed to get the kid sitting upright and pushed his lanky hair out of his face. His nose was bleeding, but not broken. Thank god. Richard had done much worse than this with one blow and the last thing they needed was to have to call a doctor. In fact, they couldn’t afford to do that at all.

"It’s not bad. Could be worse."

Mitchell touched it tentatively and pulled his hand away, looking at the blood. "It hurts."

"It’ll hurt less when the codeine kicks in." He went into the bathroom, wetting a rag and came back, softly dabbing the blood away from the swollen nose. "You know, I gathered you weren’t nineteen, but I’d never have thought you were as young as that. Barely fifteen. Oh, and you just had to be a police chief’s son, didn’t you? Friends with the broadcaster of a news program on top of that."

Mitch shook his head. "I didn’t mean to... my nana’d already given me my birthday money, so I thought..."

He trailed off, apparently unable to continue and Paul sat back, staring at the paused television thoughtfully. "You thought it couldn’t hurt anything. God, what are we going to do? You know, usually Richard only keeps his boys for a few months, then lets them go with some threats - he’s rich, he has the best attorneys and there are five of us willing to vouch for him, that kind of thing."

"Five?"

Paul nodded, "You haven’t met Tanner’s boyfriend, Jessie. He’s out of town on business." With an air of finality, Paul took out a cigarettes and lit it. "Richard’s going to kill me. I’m supposed to have quit these things."

"Can I have one?"

He looked at the meek boy next to him in shock. "No, I’m not giving smokes to a fifteen-year-old."

The boy’s ears went red, "If you don’t mind, it’s my birthday today and I was just gang banged by five men last night, one of which was you, and I want a bloody cigarette!"

For a moment, Paul couldn’t think of what to say. The kid was right. He’d fucked him the night before, giving him a cigarette really couldn’t hurt anything. "All right, fine, just... don’t make a habit of it."

The outburst was unexpected but understandable. Paul vaguely remembered being fifteen, at boarding school with Richard; he’d been a bit of a volatile mess himself at times. Besides, Mitch was probably still in shock, most fifteen-years-olds didn’t go around having sex with five men in one night - hell, most fifteen-years-old didn’t go around having sex at all. The gravity of that thought hit him about the same time that Mitch started hacking on the cigarette smoke he’d just inhaled.

Patting Mitch’s back, he chuckled, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice. He couldn’t ask, it was too personal a question, but somehow he thought he knew. The way the boy had reacted to being touched in the club, the way he had fought the affects of the drug, pulling away from hands and mouths that would have soothed the aching need. Mitchell Dearing had most likely been a virgin and he’d had that violently taken away from him but five men too doped out of their minds to care what he had to say about it. He cringed as an image of Mickey and Louis, stuffing both their cocks in the child’s arse came to him. Oh, bloody hell, they’d really messed up this time.

"Try not to inhale so much all at once." Mitch nodded, seeming much more subdued all of a sudden, though his stiff posture indicated that he still didn’t want to be touched. Standing up, Paul stretched and pulled his keys out of his pocket, flipping through them until he found Richard’s spare. "I’m going to go talk to Richard. Watch the tellie and smoke your cigarette. Try not to burn anything."

Mitch’s only response was to take another puff and stare at the anchor man still on the screen. Damnit.

Richard was sitting at the foot of the steps, hair plastered to the back of his head with sweat. Good, that meant he’d actually gone running. It was a technique that a therapist had suggested to them once when they were in school. Richard had always been going into rages and the school counselor had advised him that next time he got angry he should ‘run it off.’ Really, it was a fancy way of saying he should step back and think about it, sometimes Richard actually ran, sometimes he didn’t, but he always calmed down much faster when he did.

Paul sat next to him, ignoring how cramped the space was. "So, what do you think?"

Richard looked over and eyed the cigarette in Paul’s hand with distaste. "I thought we agreed you’d cut that out."

"I just found out I fucked a fifteen-year-old last night while I was high on god-knows-what. I’d say a cigarette’s in order." Richard chuckled, which was a good sign, because it meant he’d calmed down enough to think. "Seriously, Richard, what are you thinking?"

"I’m thinking..." Richard kicked at the step with his heal, "that I should have listened to you in the first place."

"You were drunk and high, although that’s really not going to work in front of the magistrate, I suppose. Look, so far they don’t know anything. I say we let the kid go, send him home. I doubt he’ll tell anyone anything. Besides, there are bound to be witnesses that put him in the gay district last night and I don’t think he’ll want his parents knowing he was clubbing at Humps of all places. His father’s a detective, I’m sure he knows what kind of reputation that place has."

Richard took the half-finished cigarette from Paul’s hand and ground it under his shoe. "No, I’m not taking that chance. What if he does tell?"

"Then we let your attorneys work their magic, Richard. Considering where we picked him up and the fact that he had a fake ID on him, I doubt you’ll do more than a couple of months. No one’ll believe the kid was," he looked around and lowered his voice, "raped. Especially with the four of us behind you. We’ll say he begged for it, that he wanted the drugs. It’s suspicious enough that he snuck out of his parent’s house. Between the five of us, we can make it work."

"No." Richard stood up and looked up at the door. "Go home, Paul, take a nap, get ready for your date tonight."

"Don’t hurt him, Richard. He’s fifteen."

Richard flashed him one of his winning smiles. "I never hurt my boys, Paul, you know that."

*****

Cynthia sat nervously on the couch, her legs folded under her, and played with the ripped hem of her jeans.

When Mrs. Dearing had called her yesterday morning, asking about Mitch, she really hadn’t been all that concerned. While his parents may not have known about it, Mitch was prone to going out at night and sneaking back in just before his mother came to wake him up and Cynthia had simply assumed that he’d finally managed to stay out just a few minutes too long. She was glad, actually, maybe he’d stop doing it if his parents caught him. If there was one thing the Dearings were, it was strict and they weren’t likely to put up with Mitch going out clubbing at fifteen, especially without supervision.

When Mitch hadn’t shown up at school either, she’d been a little worried, but knew that he was probably busy being yelled at by his parents. She could just see him sitting in the kitchen in his ‘clubbing gear,’ arms crossed stubbornly over his chest, determined not to listen to what they had to say. The only thing that bothered her was that Mr. Dearing would have insisted Mitch go to school, no matter how angry they were with him, or how tired he was, especially if he was tired from being up all night after having snuck out. But then, of course, Mitch usually told her when he was planning to sneak out and he hadn’t said anything.

As soon as school let out, she’d gone to a payphone and called his house, determined to put her fears to rest. Instead, she’d had them confirmed. Mitch hadn’t come home yet and his mother said the window was open in his room. Mitch never left the window open.

Since then, it had been absolute pandemonium at the Dearing’s home and Cynthia had refused to leave except to attend school and only that because Mr. Dearing had kicked her out for those seven agonizing hours. She insisted on running errands, even if they were as simple as walking to the grocery store or picking up the dry cleaning, anything so that she could be there when Mitch came home.

Having just gotten back with food for the family and some of the officers, there was nothing to do at the moment and she had sat down in the living room, not hungry, but unsure what to say or do. She still hadn’t said anything about the clubs, because it didn’t seem likely that that was where he had gone, especially considering the window was open and he hadn’t said anything to her. Besides, it really wasn’t her secret to tell, because if she told them that she would have to tell them he was gay and his parents still didn’t know.

A knock at the door jarred her from her thoughts and she leapt up, calling, "I’ll get it!"

Before she could reach it, however, it opened and Ron Kipatrick stepped inside, still wearing the suit he’d had on when he was doing the news. "Hey, Cyn, where’s Henry?"

Cynthia motioned back towards the kitchen, not that it mattered, because Mr. Dearing had already come around the corner. "Ron, it’s really good of you to come by. I saw the news this morning, you did great."

Another officer, one Cynthia didn’t recognize, came running through the living room and out the door, holding his ringing cell phone like it was a ticking bomb. Ron just managed to sidestep him and he laughed half-heartedly. "It’s like a zoo in here."

Roger forced a smile, "I know, Amy’s having a fit. We just got the carpets replaced and there’s a ketchup stain in the dining room already."

Ron had been a close friend of the family for as long as Cynthia had known them, which was most of her life - ever since she’d met Mitch in pre-school. He’d only started his job as an anchor man a year ago, but his close ties to the Dearings had helped. It meant he had inside information, not that he ever let anything leak that would harm a case, he respected his friends too much to do that to them.

As far Cynthia was concerned, the Dearing family and their friends were some of the best people she had ever known. Mr. Dearing’s job made decent money and Mrs. Dearing worked as a teacher to help make ends meet. They had scrimped and saved to buy a home in a moderately nice neighborhood, but it meant sending Mitch and his brother to public school, which was where she had met them.

For Cynthia, this was her home away from home. Her parents were divorced and she was forever flipping between her mother, who worked as an Administrator for a local Insurance Company and was about as nurturing as a calculator, and her father, who lived in a very small, posh apartment in London. She wasn’t sure what her father did, but he made a lot of money doing it and came home at all hours of the night. To be honest, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he were to get arrested, not that she was telling her mum this, or she’d never be allowed to go to London at all.

At the Dearing’s she had a mother figure she could talk to about things, who actually listened and a father figure who wasn’t likely to end up in jail. She also had a stable home and somewhere she could go to get real meals, ones that weren’t out of the microwave.

She went back to the couch and half listened to Ron and Mr. Dearing talk about the case. They had found a footprint outside of Mitch’s bedroom, but it looked like it was his. There didn’t appear to be any clothes missing. Mitch’s pack was sitting next to the door, his homework hadn’t even been touched. There weren’t any signs that anyone had tampered with it. The latch on Mitch’s window wasn’t broken. No ransom note or call as of yet. They hoped it wasn’t a vengeance thing.

Cynthia frowned at her socks. It sounded like he’d just gone out. Maybe he had left. It wasn’t like him to be spontaneous, but maybe... maybe he’d opened the window, snuck out and someone had grabbed him before he could close it? The front door opened again and the officer who had stepped out came in, closing his phone with his brows deeply furrowed. "Henry, I need to talk to you outside."

They stepped out and Cynthia considering putting her ear to the door, but Ron was still there. He sat next to her and gave her the one raised eyebrow look. The one that said his reporter-instincts were in full gear "So, what haven’t you told them?" She turned to him sharply, too sharply, because he nodded, "Right. Is it important?"

Cynthia bit her lip and shook her head, "I don’t think so, I... well, I hope not." Because if Mitch really had snuck out there was no telling what had happened to him, or who to suspect. Cynthia had never gone with him, she didn’t know where he went, or who he hung out with.

The door opened again, forcefully this time and Henry Dearing immediately came up to her, his shoulders squared and his face set in the kind of calm that she associated with his being really angry. "Cynthia, the night before last Mitch was seen in the clubbing district of London, do you know anything about this?"

Ron’s eyes widened and he put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. "Easy, Henry, she’s fourteen."

"And my son is fifteen! He had no business going into Humps." Ron’s eyes went wide at the mention of the ill-reputed gay bar that housed the seediest of London’s nightlife.

The commotion had caught the attention of Mrs. Dearing and Frank, who came in, looking at Mr. Dearing for any sign of what was going on.

Cynthia felt her chest tighten and her lip tremble, but she just managed to keep herself from crying. "I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was... he said he snuck out sometimes, but he never said where he went."

Mrs. Dearing put down her dishtowel and push her angry husband away, sitting next to the girl. "What’s going on, Cynthia?"

"Mitch sometimes snuck out and went to the clubs in London." Her voice was so soft and meek she didn’t recognize her own voice.

Mrs. Dearing was visibly upset by the news, but not in the same way as Mr. Dearing, who was red in the neck. "Why didn’t you tell us this sooner?"

She felt tears sliding down her check and hastily wiped them away. "He always tells me when he’s going out! He says that way someone would know where he was, and he always shuts the window behind him, he told me he did because he didn’t want a burglar getting in while he was gone. He didn’t say anything to me and you said the window was open, I didn’t think he could have possibly gone out... and he didn’t want you to know..."

"Know what, dear?"

Mr. Dearing answered for her, "That he’s gay."

The officer stepped forward, holding out a little pad of paper for Mrs. Dearing to see. "Last night the bouncer at Humps remembers letting him in. The man remembers because he said the kid looked too young, but the ID wasn’t fake. Said his name was Frank."

Frank paled, "My ID card’s missing."

The officer nodded, "Yeah, he must have taken it and snuck out."

Cynthia put her head in her hands and tried to stop herself from crying. She hadn’t thought it could be possible that, but it was. What had she been thinking? Why hadn’t she said something sooner.

Mrs. Dearing pulled her into her lap and Cynthia felt herself crying harder, thankful that the woman wasn’t mad at her. "It’s okay, Cynthia."

"I... I’m sorry I didn’t... didn’t tell you. He just... he didn’t want you to know and..."

Mrs. Dearing sighed, "It’s all right, but we need you tell us everything now, so that we can give it a proper look."