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Jesus. Right. It had been during the last few weeks of that final summer vacation. Before they were supposed to start college. Beau had already been unhappy about Archie’s decision to go to San Diego State, but he’d come to terms with it—seemed to come to terms with it. But then they’d been caught fooling around in the grass behind the fieldhouse. It was summer vacation. School was closed, the campus empty, but somehow goddamned Dasha Martin, Beau’s stalker, as Archie had not-so-jokingly referred to her, had stumbled over them. And Dasha was not only obsessed with Beau, she was a blabbermouth of wide renown.

It hadn’t taken long for word to spread.

For Archie it had almost been a relief. He had despised, resented, the sneaking around. Had hated—and sure, been a little hurt by—Beau’s rampant paranoia. All the same, he’d felt horrible for Beau. Being outed had been a living hell for Beau. However, they were both going away in the fall, and Archie knew from his years in Twinkleton that you could put up with anything for a limited amount of time. He had known Beau would be okay, and Beau had been okay.

Maybe not as quickly, and maybe not as okay as he’d pretended.

Maybe not as quickly, and maybe not as okay as Archie had wanted to believe.

Nervous restlessness had Archie on his feet, circling the old-fashioned room. Suddenly, those cozy four walls felt like they were closing in on him, the space was hot and stuffy. Too small. He made another round of the room, pausing at one of the tall double-sash windows, pushing it open. Cool damp night air flowed in.

As he turned away, he knocked one of the small decorative cushions from the wingback chair. He bent to pick it up from the carpet and froze as, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the flash of moonlight on metal.

Squatting down, he studied what looked to him like the scaled G-10 handle and steel spine of a tactical knife, peeping out from behind the chair seat cushion. His scalp prickled in sick recognition—followed by instant alarm.

Behind him, the room door opened.

Chapter Eleven

Archie rose quickly, ungracefully. He steadied himself on the edge of the side table.

Beau, holding a white bag of takeout, paused in the doorway. His brows drew together.

“What are you doing?”

Archie nodded down at the chair, said without emotion, “I think someone is trying to frame me for John’s murder.” He added, “Someone who doesn’t know John was shot.” It was more question than statement because, belatedly, he realized how much he had got wrong that night.

Without a word, Beau set the bag of food on the nightstand and joined Archie at the window. He stared down in silence at the tactical knife partially tucked behind the seat cushion.

Finally, he said, “Well, well. That’s convenient.”

Archie glanced at his profile. Beau’s expression was set and stern. His gaze met Archie’s. “John wasn’t shot.”

Archie said nothing. He was still processing.

Beau said in that same flat voice, “John was stabbed.”

“Stabbed.” Archie repeated. His voice sounded strange. But stabbing someone to death was very different from shooting them. It was more personal. It seemed—maybe this was not logical—more violent.

As this terrible understanding sank in, he realized what it was about the crime scene that had niggled at him: no smell of gunpowder. Even outside, the distinct scent of smokeless propellant usually lasted ten to fifteen minutes.

But yeah, this was why they hadn’t ever asked him about his weapon. Hadn’t asked to see it, hadn’t asked if he even had it with him. He didn’t have it. His pistol had been collected as evidence in Wyoming and sent to a ballistics lab for analysis.

Such a weird mistake to have made. Having lived for months with the constant threat of gun violence, so many goddamned guns, having been shot himself, he had jumped to the conclusion that John had been shot.

Beau was saying, “A clean, direct stab to the heart that caused rapid internal bleeding and death.”

Archie was very still, remembering, reliving those last moments with John in the dark shadows of the gazebo.

Beau, watching him, said, “I assumed you knew that, but then I started to wonder. It was dark in the gazebo and you were...tired. I tested it this afternoon. Once I realized you didn’t know how John died, I was pretty sure you were cleared of any involvement.”

Archie did a doubletake. “Pretty sure...”

“But you’re smart and careful and you’ve been working undercover, which means you’re a convincing liar when you need to be.” Beau knelt, pulled out his phone and snapped a couple of photos of the knife peeping out behind the cushion.

Archie moved out of the way, returning to the bed and sitting down on the edge of the mattress. He said nothing. His thoughts were going a million miles a minute.

Uppermost was the realization that he would be arrested. He could not see a way around that. Regardless of what Beau privately thought, he would have no choice after this. Which meant, among other things, Archie would have to rely on Beau solving John’s homicide. He wanted to believe Beau was up to that challenge. That Beau would not be influenced, consciously or unconsciously, by his old bitterness and resentment.