Think Twice

“That’s not what this account is. Greg never posted or commented.”

“Okay. So maybe it’s just a way to look at other accounts and not have anyone know.”

“He was direct messaging with someone, Myron.”

Emily tapped with her thumb and brought up an account for a very toned, very muscled, very oiled-up male “Public Figure” and “Fitness Model” named Bo Storm.

Myron’s eyes narrowed.

Bo Storm had six thousand followers and followed nine hundred people. Emily glanced at Myron over her shoulder. She wanted to see his reaction. Bo was shirtless in nearly every post in what they used to call beefcake poses. He had a rippling six-pack and the kind of smooth skin that can only come from a serious waxing regimen. His face stubble had been carefully cultivated. His hair was long and frosted. In the top pinned photo, Bo Storm was dancing on what looked to be a nightclub stage in only a thong.

His profile quote read: “Living the rainbow dream in Vegas. Guys, sign up for my OnlyFans account to see more.”

Myron had no idea what to make of this.

“How old do you think he is?” Emily asked.

“Twenty-five-ish?”

“Yeah. A lot younger than Greg.”

Myron nodded, trying to sort through where Emily was going with this. “So this Bo and Greg were messaging?”

“Yes.”

“Did you read the messages?”

“Greg came back into the room, but I saw enough. Heart emojis. Future plans. Intimate stuff.”

Myron said nothing.

Emily asked, “Are you surprised?”

“Who cares if I am?”

“I guess it shouldn’t matter, should it? I mean, I get it. Or I try to get it. It’s a new world, and our generation is still trying to figure it all out. And maybe Greg’s constant womanizing was some kind of compensation or outlet or maybe he’s bi or pan or omni or I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Myron said.

“Yeah, we can both keep saying that, but it’s still a shock, right?”

Myron said nothing.

“And you’re right. It doesn’t matter. Not in that way. But here’s where it gets weirder. Look at the last date this boy — I know this Bo Storm’s not a boy, but my God, he’s so young — look at the last day he posted.”

Myron took the phone from her now and scrolled. The most recent photo was Bo standing on a beach wearing tight bathing trunks and a black tuxedo jacket with no shirt under it. The caption read “Beach Formal for Larry and Craig’s Wedding,” followed by various emojis of hearts and flames and rainbows.

Myron looked at the date. “He hasn’t posted in five years.”

“He stopped two weeks before Greg ran off for Asia. And look before that. This Bo guy never went more than two or three days without posting. So, I mean, put it together. Greg is flirting with this young hot guy on Instagram. Suddenly Greg decides to run off. The hot young guy stops posting. So you tell me.”

The implication seemed obvious.

“After you read the messages,” Myron began, “did you confront Greg?”

“No. At the time... How to put this? I was surprised, sure. And part of me was devastated. But part of me... I loved Greg. I really did. But imagine how hard his life must have been, Myron — hiding who he really was so he could keep his life in sports.”

“It’s 2024,” Myron said.

“Seriously? Tell me — how many male coaches in pro sports have come out?”

Myron nodded. “Fair point. So you figured Greg ran off with this Bo guy?”

“What else would you conclude under the circumstances? Did you really buy the whole monastery-in-Laos stuff?”

“I guess not.”

“And in a way, I was happy for him. Greg was never at peace. Not his entire life. There was something always roiling inside of him. I lived with him and knew him better than anyone and yet I always felt that distance. So I let it go. I had the money. I had the perks of marriage, and I was already used to not having him around. It was all okay. Until he died. Jeremy was crushed.”

Myron remembered. That had been the last time Myron had seen his biological son — at Greg’s funeral crying over the death of his “real” father.

“We’re still missing big pieces,” Myron said.

“I know.”

“Let’s say Greg was attracted to Bo. Let’s say the two of them ran off together. How do we go from that to Greg, what, faking his own death?”

“I don’t know.”

“And then, what, he waited a few years and murdered Cecelia Callister and her son?”

“Well,” Emily said, “Cecelia was what I thought was his type — beautiful and married. But I don’t know what to think anymore. Was Greg gay? Was he into married women? Both? Neither? And now the FBI think he’s alive and murdered two people. I can’t see it, but people are full of secrets, Myron. You know that.”

Chapter Four