More bullshit. Greg had suggested this was some kind of mind control, and Foster fully believed him. It fits. It all fits.

Which is why he had taken Ginko's phone.

While Ginko slept, he'd occupied himself going through his contacts, his messages, his search history... trying to piece together what Ginko was actually doing. What the fae were doing with him. Any scrap. Any clue.

But all he'd learned was... nothing. And the past couple of weeks have steadily stripped Foster's nerves, like a boiled egg left on the stove too long--so long that the water has evaporated, the shell cracking under the heat.

And Ginko just--

"His dad was right there? Were you going to keep him in the backseat of your car with--with the guinea pig? I--no. No. Fuck this."

Foster pulls back, dropping the phone off the edge of the bed and sliding off to land on both feet and stomp around to the nightstand. He opens the drawer viciously before slamming it shut, loud enough and hard enough to...

... to produce a crack of metal or wood, very likely breaking it inside. The pill bottles rattle with the impact, and a couple of them topple, joined by the jangling of pennies and the dull thunk of the cocksleeve falling over.

He doesn't let go of the drawer handle--just stands there for a couple of seconds, breathing, shoulders bent.