Page 147 of Hush

Breathing hard, he escaped into the hallway behind his courtroom.

“Tom! Wait!”

Mike’s voice, behind him, as if he was at the end of a long tunnel.

He pitched forward, not waiting, and his shoulder clipped the wall. Stumbling, Tom ended up slumping sideways, his forehead pressed to the cool paint, both hands up by his face. Was he surrendering? Or trying not to drown?

“Tom?” Mike, suddenly there, at his side. Mike’s hands on him, on his waist, turning him around. Mike’s face swam before him. Concern, fear, confusion, suspicion. God, his heart broke at the sight, at Mike looking at him with anything other than the joy and raw affection that had suffused his gaze for weeks. “Tom? Talk to me. What’s going on?”

He reached for Mike, grasping his forearms. His hands were shaking, and when he grabbed Mike, Mike’s arms started shaking, too.

“Why did he describe your tattoo, Tom? Why did he describe a man who looks like you, with your tattoo?” Mike was talking to him like he’d talk to a spooked horse. Or like he was girding himself, preparing to hear the worst. Like he was holding his hands beneath his heart, ready to catch the shards as they fell when it cracked.

Tom’s own heart cracked. He licked his lips. Shook his head, slowly. “Not my tattoo,” he breathed. “Peter’s. It’sPeter.”

“Peter?” Mike frowned. “Who?”

“Peter… My…” His throat closed. They were in the courthouse’s back hallway, and the bailiff was going to walk out of his courtroom any moment. Anyone could hear him. Judge Juarez’s office was ten feet to the right. The law library four feet to the left. “My college boyfriend,” he breathed. “We got those tattoos together.”

A light flicked on in the back of Mike’s eyes, before a wariness crept in. He pulled back. Dropped his hands. “Oh.” His eyes skittered down the hall. “We, uh. We should get you to your chambers. The attorneys will be there soon.”

“Mike—”

“Come on, Judge Brewer.” Mike wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Let’s go.”

A new panic slithered up his throat, seized his heart. He trailed after Mike, his mind a blur, memories of two men crashing into each other like head-on trains. Mike averted his gaze as he held the door to his chambers open for Tom, but as soon as Tom was inside, he turned back to Mike.

“Mike. I—” He had no clue what to say.

Mike flinched. Tom’s heart shredded. He reached for Mike—

Knocks broke through the silent office. “Your Honor, Mr. Ballard and Mr. Renner are here for you.”

He winced, and shook his head. “Mike…”

“I’m staying here. Like I said I would. I don’t want you alone with Ballard. I don’t care if Renner is here too. I don’t trust him to save your life, if it comes to that.”

“Okay. Yes. Stay.” Keeping Mike close, even though it meant Mike thought Ballard was a threat to his life. What world had he been dropped into? What rabbit hole had he fallen down, what mirror had he fallen through?

Clearing his throat, he called for the attorneys to enter. Barnes trailed after them both and took up position near the back. Tom shucked his robes, buying time. He moved to his conference table, standing behind his chair. “I believe I know the identity of Mr. Kryukov’s missing lover.”

Renner perked up. Ballard scowled. “What? How could you possibly—”

“The how isn’t important at the moment.” He spoke with a steely conviction he did not feel. “If, in fact, the man that I believeisthe man the defense is searching for, we can discuss the details then.” And, he’d have to talk to Chief Judge Fink about a recusal. In the end, was he going to lose this case anyway? And all because of his past? Could heeverescape who he was?

“Who do you think it is?” Barnes stepped forward. He had his notepad out, pen ready to take notes. An FBI agent to the core.

“He went by Peter, but his name was Pasha. Pasha Baryshnikov. We went to the same university. We were… friends.”

Barnes eyeballed him. Friends. Right. Friends enough to recognize a man from a bland description, aside from one vividly identifiable tattoo on his ass.

“He was Russian, too?” Renner frowned. “Kryukov didn’t mention that.”

“He came over when he was young. Before going to university. He was a refugee in the late eighties, I think. He didn’t care much for Mother Russia. By now, he’s probably shed everything he could of his Russian past.”

“Approximate age?” Barnes was still taking notes.

“My age. Forty-six. Maybe a year older.”