the other Son

Chapter 54

Lesza imagined Eanverness to be quite charming – in a small town kind of way, where narrow alleys weren't considered an unnavigable hassle for car owners but authentic and cute, and shabby was chic, and one just had to buy that local cheese or liquor or handwoven shawl which at best came with some sort of riveting family lore told by the store's owner.

Provided, one would've been able to actually see the town. Trudging after Tristan, his impression consisted of slick cobblestones and the hazy outlines of illuminated windows here and there while the population apparently hibernated until better times came around.

Why Tristan had settled here was an enigma – it was utterly impractical and detached from time, news certainly found their way onto the island at a slower pace and Lesza couldn't figure out how this was compatible with his duties as member of the tribunal.

It almost seemed like he was running or hiding.

Lesza's former presumption of Tristan and Creon being one and the same had dispersed, mostly because of the emotion visible in Tristan's eyes when he'd spoken about his brother – a quivering mixture of agony and guilt and melancholy and hatred. Therefore he didn't believe Tristan was hiding from his former self and the therefore inevitable lies.

There were lies, obviously. Plenty of them and Lesza was torn whether he really wanted to see behind them. For now, this strangely amicable version of Tristan was to his liking; the ugly truth painted with iridescent colours to fill in the gaps.

Without warning, the church's belfry loomed high and mighty over them and Lesza craned his neck trying to make out the tip. It probably wasn't that tall and impressive but the fog certainly gave it an intimidating atmosphere.

"We're going to speak with the Reverend?" Lesza inquired and Tristan nodded.

Apparently, he was willing to try Lesza's way of solving a crime with some old-fashioned interrogation.

Tristan nodded at some of the men taking down the makeshift stalls used for the bake sale earlier.

Once they'd rounded the small square and were back in front of the church's portal, he narrowed his eyes and stated with clear displeasure, "He's not here."

"I haven't seen him either," Lesza agreed. Wasn't the Reverend supposed to be here though?

"Dirk," Tristan called out and strode over to a man in his late sixties – although he could've been considerably older since his face was incredibly wrinkly.

"Aye?" The word was half acknowledgement and half groan as he straightened his spine and grimaced, creating even more wrinkles.

"I'm looking for Reverend Moore."

"Ah," Dirk made and scratched the back of his bald head. "He was here a minute ago."

Tristan raised his eyebrows at the vague statement.

Dirk looked around as if the Pastor were to pop up somewhere any second now in an unplanned game of hide and seek.

"He said he's got an important phone call," another man walking past them carrying a box supplied, his tone conveying exactly what he thought about that conveniently timed 'phone call'.

"And we're supposed to beaver away?" Dirk scoffed and rubbed his back for emphasis. He waved his other hand vaguely towards the alley on the right side of the church. "He's got his office in the rectory."

Tristan hummed softly under his breath. "Thank you, Dirk."

"Tell him we could use another pair of hands here, will ya," the old man remarked with a grin which showed off tobacco-stained teeth and the glint of golden dental crowns.

Lesza wandered in the direction of the rectory, an inconspicuous building that didn't look any different than the surrounding houses.

"Do you think he fled?" he asked and turned his head to look at Tristan. It was Sunday after all – what kind of important phone call could there be?

Tristan Rang the doorbell and stepped back to watch the windows, all of them unilluminated.

"Tell me, Detective, how skilled are you with opening locked doors?"

Incredulous, Lesza looked back and forth between the front door and the other man. "That's trespassing."

"Hm, indeed."

He sighed at the dry sarcasm and stepped forward to take a closer look at the lock. "It's not impossible," he finally admitted.

Tristan grinned. "Perfect."

"You can't be-" Lesza rubbed a hand over his face. "Of fucking course you're serious."

Tristan casually crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned against the door jamb with his shoulder, appearing so utterly laid-back with that damn grin twitching around his rosy lips and the taunt glistening in his eyes, lids hooded in an almost seductive fashion.

Was he imagining things? Like wishing on a shooting star and then realizing it was an air plane crossing the dark night sky all along?

"I didn't think this is a sensitive topic for you. Considering your nightly excursion to the morgue."

Lesza forcedbhimself to look away – the other man was strangely magnetic – and bit his tongue hard to keep any curses at bay. Tristan seemed to enjoy vexing him tremendously.

"What if he's in there?"

"Owning a gun is forbidden."

"I wasn't worried about being shot," Lesza threw back flatly. "Rather being reported to the police."

Tristan cocked his head to the side. "You are the police, Detective."

"Which doesn't mean I'm allowed to break the law whenever."

The other man scoffed – maybe at the insinuation there was a law to follow or the existence of rules in general; either way he clearly perceived himself above whatever kept society from slipping into anarchy.

"We should knock first," Lesza amended, and Tristan raised his hand, knuckles rapping against the wood, making him flinch involuntarily.

Barely a second had passed before he noted plainly, "No one's home."

"I hate you," Lesza huffed.

At that, Tristan laughed, surprised but still rough as if he wasn't used to it, and his gaze lingered way too long on Lesza's face.

"Your ears turn red when you lie, Detective."

This time it was Lesza who grinned and it caught Tristan off guard since his expression grew cautious, not prepared for this kind of reply. Lesza long since had figured the other man was used, downright loved, to be in control and things not going according to his plans were unsettling though also the only way to get a peek behind that shell.

He leaned forwards, invaded Tristan's personal space, and the wispy trails of his breath caressed those sharp, pale cheekbones in the cold air. "Well, then you know everything you need to know, right?"

"What do you mean?" Tristan asked, eyes narrowed warily.

Lesza shrugged, grin broadening. "You'll figure it out."

The other man pressed his lips into a firm line but was apparently too proud to actually ask, unwilling to abandon his air of superiority.

Lesza made sure their hands were brushing when he reached for the doorknob – just to startle him a bit more, just to see a bit more of that wary surprise – and turned it, the door swinging open with a silent click.

"You see, the beautiful thing about small towns is that no one sees a point in locking their doors when they know everyone anyway."

"That's negligent," Tristan observed nevertheless nudged the door open a bit wider with the tip of his shoe. "I knew that though."

Lesza chuckled, slipping past him into the narrow hallway. "Of course you
did."