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“You don’t want to guess?”

“No.” Archie hesitated. He had already recognized the possible link between John’s tension at lunch and those phone calls. He had no way to get hold of John’s phone records on his own, so there was no point in keeping that thought to himself. “I think it’s possible he might have phoned his killer.”

Beau’s formidable brows rose. He and Swenson exchanged looks. “That’s quite a leap.”

“Maybe. I didn’t make the connection at the time. But like I said on Saturday, I think John was worried about something. It was something that came up after we arrived in Twinkleton. He was fine before that. Straight after lunch he went into his study and closed the door.”

Swenson stopped clicking his pen and made a note.

“And what did you do?” Beau questioned.

“I went upstairs to s—read.”

Beau stared, but said only, “And you read for how long?”

It wasn’t like being injured in the line of duty was something to be embarrassed about, and yet, Archie did not want to confess any weakness, physical or otherwise, to Beau. It was silly, just ego, but he knew he was not at his best, and it left him feeling vulnerable and on defense. Beau always looked for soft spots, always played to win.

“I don’t know. I nodded off at some point. John and I had dinner. He still seemed... It’s hard to say. Fatigued? A little down maybe? I wasn’t paying close enough attention. I think he’d made his mind up about something. He didn’t seem worried, though. He wasn’t fearful. I thought he was more like his usual self. Or maybe he had just switched to good host mode.”

Neither Beau nor Swenson spoke.

“After dinner I went up to shower. I dressed. When I came downstairs, John was out on the terrace. I joined him. We talked for a while.”

When Archie stopped, Beau prompted, “About?”

It was painful to remember that last conversation. “Just...chat.”

Beau’s eyes narrowed. “Some reason you can’t share the topic of your discussion?”

Archie said wearily, “Because it’s painful. Because I think...”

“You think what?”

Archie struggled with it, said huskily, “I think I hurt him that night. Again. Without realizing I’d ever hurt him to start with.”

“Hurt him how?” Swenson asked quickly. “You’re saying you argued or you actually hit him?”

Archie ignored Swenson. Beau ignored Swenson.

Beau drawled, “Sure. Because you’re such a sensitive guy, Special Agent Crane. You care so much about other people’s feelings.”

Not that it had exactly been a by-the-book interrogation up to that point, but this was so far out of left field—so far out of line—

Archie pushed up to his feet, palms flat on the table as he leaned forward, yelling, “What the fuck is your problem, Beau?”

Beau, also on his feet and leaning across the table, snarled back, “You’re my problem!”

It was not an enormous table and they were just about nose-to-nose, glaring into each other’s eyes.

“Whoaaa!” Swenson’s chair scraped back noisily. He stared from Beau to Archie. “Chief?”

It had been several lifetimes since Archie had been close enough to Beau to gaze deeply into his eyes—let alone exchange breaths—and it was jarring. Granted, that could have been the jumping to his feet in a rage. Definitely not on the recommended behaviors list. He searched Beau’s gaze for any trace of that easy, smiling, kind—genuinely kind—kid. Beau’s eyes were as cold and blue as Neptune. Or at least the Neptune-blue they’d believed in back in eleventh grade astronomy.

“Beau,” Archie protested, and that was straight from the heart. He just didn’t get it. What the hell did Beau think he had to be so furious about? Still furious nearly a decade later?

Beau’s eyes flickered, though he did not soften.

Swenson began, “Do you want me to...” But then petered out because it was obvious that nobody wanted him to do anything besides never have been there in the first place. You didn’t have to be an experienced detective to know that this was not how homicide interrogations—how any interrogation—typically went.