The Lemon House Murders by Tucker May

I sit down in what I hope is an unobtrusive manner on the short wall surrounding the lonely tree. I kick at a small rock and send it skittering across the concrete. Then I set about closely inspecting my own hands, a pointless act meant to make it seem like I have something, anything at all, to do. I sit this way for a few minutes until a metal folding chair is placed down right next to me with a loud clang.

I look up to see a young man. My heart leaps into my throat. His is the sweet, friendly face I’d seen in the window as my parents dropped me off earlier that day.

“Hold still,” he instructs me, adjusting the glasses that have slid partway down his nose. His soft, round face rests atop an equally soft, round body. He is far from tall. In his hands he holds a notepad and a sharp pencil.

“Are you going to draw me?”

“I draw everybody,” he responds as he begins to lay down a few tentatively sketched lines onto the pad. He produces a pack of cigarettes and pulls one out with his lips. He deftly lights it with a small yellow lighter.

“You want one?”

“No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

“You will. These things are like gold in here.”

His eyes bounce up and down from the notepad as he works.

“They’re right, you know,” he says after a lengthy pause.

“Who’s right?”

“The guys. They keep saying you’re dressed like you’re going to Sunday School.”

I frown. “This is how I dress.”

He snorts in response. I tug at the sleeves of my plaid button-down.

“My dad’s a pastor,” I say to fill the silence more than anything else. “He runs a church a few hours east of here. Small town called Elba. We live in the apartment above the nave.”

“What’s a nave?”

“It’s the— like, the area with all the pews. Where people sit during the service.”

“Ah. So you’re a Jesus boy.”

I blink.

“Um. Yeah. I guess so. The church is called Stonewood.” He grunts. I say, “Stonewood Non-Denominational Congregatory Assembly of Worship.”

“Catchy.”

I let that go.

“My grandpa started it way back in the sixties.”

He cocks his head sideways, examining his work. He says, “You don’t ever wonder if it’s all bullshit?”

“If what is?”

“God. Church. The whole thing.”

“Of course not. There’s no higher calling than being of service to your community in God’s name.”

“Sure, I guess. If that’s the service your community needs.”

“Every community needs God.”

“I think mine just needs some decent jobs. Any chance God is planning to open a factory in South Central?”

I shift my weight, rub my upper lip. He goes on.

“Lighten up, it’s a joke. My abuela’s real Catholic. Always struck me as a scam, though. Suffer now to get rewarded after you die? I mean, come on.”

“Hey, you know, if you’re going to . . .”

“Hold still,” he asserts.

I do as he orders, highly aware of his eyes on me. Heat rises in my face.

“They call me Gobs, by the way.” His light tone diffuses the tension a bit. I soften. “Short for Gobstopper. You know, the candy?” My curiosity must show on my face, because he explains, “Tibu picked it. He said it’s because I’m little, round and sweet.” I crack a smile. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. I’m a lot tougher than I look.”

“Who’s Tibu?”

“You’ll find out.”

He focuses on his drawing for a while.

“So, what’s your poison?” he asks finally. “Wait, let me guess. Laced up guy like you— cocaine?”

I shake my head. “Never even seen the stuff.”

“Ah. Downers, then. Oxy?”

“I’m not an addict.”

He laughs. “Yeah. Came to Lemon House for vacation, huh? For the sandy beaches?”

“My parents brought me. I think because— I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fair enough. But why here?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said you’re from a few hours east. Gotta be treatment facilities closer to home. Why come all the way to LA?”

“My parents. They were worried what people would think. I had to go far enough to make sure no one found out. They told the whole congregation that I’m on a mission trip.”

“Hmm,” he grunts. “Well, at least your family is talking to you.”

“Yours isn’t?”

He rolls his eyes.

“My cousins spent years running drugs through the house but somehow my abuela blames me for getting hooked.” He shrugs. “Who needs ‘em?”

“I don’t know what I’d do without my family.”

Gobs winces.

“You’re gonna get eaten alive in here.”

– Excerpted from The Lemon House by Tucker May, Tucker May Books, 2026. Reprinted with permission.