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I shrugged.

“Maybe something electric?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I think a Tesla would match your eyes perfectly.”

I made a sound of derision. “I’m not a Tesla kind of guy.”

I glanced at him, glanced again. “Something wrong?”

He was staring straight past me. “Speak of the devil.”

“Which devil?” My stomach was already tying itself into knots.

Dax said, ventriloquist-style, “Raleigh.”

The room started to shrink, my breathing turned fast and shallow, my hands got trembly. What the hell? Was I going to have a goddamned anxiety attack becauseRaleighwalked into the room? What waswrongwith me?

“Who’s he with?” I jerked out.

“Raleigh? Nobody. He’s not—” Dax looked at me. His expression changed. “Are you okay?”

“Of course!”

“Uh… Yeah. You look like someone asked you to dissect a frog.”

I tried to laugh, but the sound was strange.

Dax considered, asked, “Are you freaked out because Raleigh’s here or because you’re afraid he’s seeing someone?”

“Neither,” I said fiercely. “I could care less.”

“If you could careless, that means youdocare—” Dax’s expression rearranged itself once more. “Okay, buck up, buckaroo. He saw you. He’s coming over.”

Just like that—like someone had dumped cold water over my head—I was okay again. Well, no. Sick with stress, shaky with adrenaline, but all stations ready.

Dax was gazing past my shoulder, smiling with broad fake sincerity. “Hey. Detective Jackson.”

I didn’t turn. Didn’t look up. I kept staring straight ahead, memorizing the tiny yellow-blue print on Dax’s black shirt. What did they call those amoeba shapes? Paisley.

Raleigh stopped beside our table. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the little clear buttons at the bottom of his white shirt, the edge of his brown twill blazer, his belt buckle and the attached blue and gold badge, the outline of his holster.

He said, “Dax. Caz.”

“Haven’t seen you in here for a while,” Dax said.

That was for my benefit. To assure me Raleigh had not been hanging out in bars living the good life while I’d been in lockup.

I watched the slow, regular fall of Raleigh’s crisp white shirt—no more uniforms for him. He was plainclothes now. A real live detective. He’d wanted it so much for so long. And now he had it. Everything he ever wanted.

I could feel his indecision as he stood there. Once again trying to be the adult in the room.

The problem with hate is it’s a very unsatisfying emotion. Anger is great. Anger gives you energy and drive and direction. But hatred is empty, bottomless. Sure, it can give energy, drive, focus, but it always leads to a standstill. Nothing you do appeases it. Nothing is enough to stop it, soothe it, quiet it. It’s there eating at you all the time, like an idling engine draining you dry.

As much as I didn’t want to recallanything, I couldn’t help knowing so many stupid little things about him: how much he loved iced cinnamon rolls and dogs and the smell of pine trees. I couldn’t help remembering that he was the first guy—first anybody—who bought me flowers for Valentine’s Day and how deep his laugh sounded when my head was resting on his chest. All those useless pointless bits of knowledge: that he sang in the shower, was allergic to red wine, had a scar on the back of his calf where a German Shepherd bit him his first week on patrol. The way he used to wrap his arms around me from behind or kiss the back of my neck. The way his eyes used to get glittery with emotion when we made—when we fucked.

None of that was helpful. None of that comforted me.