Did You Hear the Angels Sing?
by H.L. Fullerton Waylon was dead. They used to joke that where there was a Wills, there was a Way, but now Way was gone so Wills wasn’t sure where that left him. Presumably answering questions for the nice men in suits who stopped by to inform him of his husband’s murder. To be honest, the nice men in suits—law enforcement of some type; they’d flashed ID badges, but Way’s brain had been so otherwise occupied juggling shock and grief and fear that he hadn’t zeroed in on what agency was ripping his soul in two—they weren’t actually nice. The suits they wore were nice and they looked nice in them (the one on the left more than the one on the right), but Wills, who Way always said was a great judge of character, didn’t think either man knew much about niceness. Wills recognized an interrogation when it showed up on their doorstep. The two suits who had bullied their way into his living room and cornered him on the couch—the couch he and Way had shared only that morning—asked him about W
