By Joshua Ryan
It takes a little over half an hour to get to Glenvue from where I’d been living, but I was so wired up I don’t remember anything about the drive except being wired up. I was a mile from my destination when I came out of my nerves enough to notice that Glenvue was a lot more prosperous than I’d thought it was. I hadn’t pictured Dean working in a place that was quite that well off. Maybe that explained why they didn’t mind hiring gays! It looked like the kind of town where they wash the streets every night and you get fined if you don’t have a two-car garage. I couldn’t help looking at it and thinking, “If my next book sells, I’m gonna get a place out here.”
The driver slowed down and turned in my direction. He was a 20-something with a pony tail and a taste for the smooth jazz channel. “You said 623 White Oak, right?”
“Right.”
“That’s it over there, but there must be somethin wrong, man. It’s the County Jail.”
