Page 4

Chapter

Four

I t was nearly 9 p.m. when Jon and Tracey arrived home, and Jon couldn’t have been more relieved to enter his sanctuary. Strange for this big house, that had, until recently, been cavernous and lonely, to become a sanctuary, but he couldn’t deny the bone-deep relief when they’d pulled into the driveway.

More due to the man following him into the kitchen.

Once he set his messenger bag and keys on the counter where he let mail collect, he snagged Tracey’s wrist. After divesting Tracey of his laptop bag, he backed him against the fridge doors, framed his face between his palms, and kissed him tenderly.

Tracey smiled when they parted. “Well, hello. What was that for?”

“I’ve wanted to do that all day, and I couldn’t. Do you know how hard it is not giving in to the little urges to touch you? They build up, so I have to do this when we get home.” Jon kissed him again, now more intentionally. Hell, he’d get on his knees right here and now if he wasn’t aware that Tracey was tired and probably in need of some pain relief.

It had been a long day, but they’d gotten a lot accomplished after the crime scene and death notification. The others had come through, too. Sarena had preliminary details from the autopsy.

Ethan Wright had been strangled to death in the middle of intercourse. Toxicology was still pending to determine if he had GHB in his system, but there had been other evidence. Trace fibers were found in his mouth. A microscopic comparison was being made to motel linens to see if they were consistent with a washcloth found wedged behind the bathroom door.

The body itself had been wiped down. No semen stains, saliva, nothing. The killer had used a condom, showered there, wiped down the room and body with one of the motel’s towels, and taken it with him. He’d probably intended to take the washcloth, too, but where it had been found indicated it had fallen and been swept aside by the bathroom door, unnoticed.

Trace evidence in a hotel/motel room came with no guarantee it matched this particular guest. Everyone in law enforcement knew trace evidence not found on the body was virtually useless in court. Defense attorneys only had to tell juries those hairs and fibers could have belonged to the previous guest. No vacuum cleaned rooms perfectly between guests, especially considering how pressured housekeeping staff were to turn rooms over fast. That was usually enough to establish reasonable doubt.

Tracey looped his arms around Jon’s neck. “I like your urges. But would this surge of affection have anything to do with a certain IT expert winding you up?”

Jon had to laugh. He wasn’t surprised Tracey jumped to Patrick Byrne. He’d known taking Tracey to the IT dungeon would open a can of worms. Asking Patrick to tone it down would have aroused his suspicions as to why Jon would ask such a thing. It would have also challenged him to dial it up a notch, which would be scary since Patrick was already inappropriate to the extreme.

“This has nothing to do with Patrick. He’s a confident guy who knows people are attracted to him, and he likes to press buttons. He’s been trying to break through the Ice Man’s exterior for years. It’s a challenge. If you show him it bothers you, it’ll get worse.”

Tracey raised an eyebrow. “Oh? People are attracted to him, huh?”

Jon rested his hands on Tracey’s hips. “Other people, not me. I don’t—” He stopped himself from saying what had only recently become a blatant lie, rephrasing in a way that was more honest. “My job is only worth risking for you.”

In truth, Jon couldn’t pinpoint where the drive to put his hands all over Tracey right now was coming from. It wasn’t their first day back to work. It wasn’t even their first time splitting off to follow leads on a case. He didn’t want to scrutinize it. He just liked having his hands on his boyfriend wherever and whenever he could do so freely.

A surprising idea occurred to Jon. “Were you attracted to him? You can be honest. I know he draws people in.”

Tracey’s face blanked, and he pulled his arms down and turned around. Brushing Jon back, he pulled open the fridge doors and perused the shelves, not answering.

Jon backed off, surprised not only by the distancing move, but by how blatant it was, too.

“What do you want for dinner? I’m starving, but I don’t have a lot of energy for cooking. Something quick and easy would be great.”

Snagging the belted waistband of Tracey’s trousers, Jon pulled him—carefully—away from the open fridge and wrapped his arms around him from behind. “Let’s just order something.”

Tracey sighed and relaxed against him. “Okay.”

So he’s not mad, just uncomfortable.

Jon kissed his neck, and Tracey allowed it for a minute, then retreated. “I’m going to clean up. Order whatever sounds good. You know what I like.”

Watching him leave the kitchen and slowly ascend the stairs in that one-leg-at-a-time way that didn’t strain his calf, Jon tried not to read much into his standoffishness.

It had been a long day.

On top of that, Jon had begun gathering information on the Enlightened Covenant Ministries and its West Virginia location. He needed an angle to visit in person, but first, he needed intel. Those places didn’t let just anyone come in and start asking questions. Jon had never personally interacted with a conversion therapy camp, but he’d heard plenty of stories. This would take everything he had. He’d need the Ice Man, but the minute Perry had mentioned it, his skin had buzzed with awareness.

The darkness inside him, lying dormant like a sleeping cat, had yawned and stretched and twitched an ear in interest. This could very well be where their perpetrator had run across Ethan Wright. Or had come to understand victims like him.

His hibernating hunter awakening, plus Tracey’s obvious need for distance, put him off-balance.

Jon shrugged off these thoughts with a head shake. He was home now, and it was time to leave work at work. Tracey was clearly not having the best day, and he wanted to fix that.

Especially after Perry and Tracey had returned from their interview with one of Wright’s last hookups with victimology information supporting the conversion therapy angle. The way Perry had described the interview with Lang, it was clear his protégé was still on fire with getting difficult witnesses to relax and open up. That deserved celebrating.

Grabbing menus from the restaurant drawer, he jogged up the stairs to find Tracey in a state of half-undress in their bedroom, hanging slacks and a suit jacket on padded hangers, then disappearing into the walk-in closet.

Crawling across the bed to lie on his stomach while he flipped through the food choices, Jon reveled in the moment’s domesticity. The late hour limited their options.

Pizza, despite the convenient leftovers, was becoming too much of a crutch, and he wasn’t in the mood. Italian? Thai? Indian?

There was a Mediterranean restaurant nearby they both liked, but they closed soon. Jon would have to go himself instead of getting delivery.

While he brooded, Tracey slipped into the bathroom, and instead of starting the shower, began running a bath.

Jon changed into comfortable jogging pants and a Henley, then tapped on the bathroom door.

“Trace?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I come in?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

Jon opened the door and leaned on the frame, eyeing the big soaking tub that took up most of the right side wall. “Mediterranean, Italian, or Thai food?”

Tracey stared at the water he squeezed from a washcloth, his wet hair slicked back as though he’d dunked himself first thing. “Italian. Meatballs.”

“Italian it is.” He went to shut the door, glad he wouldn’t have to drive. The Italian place was open until midnight on Fridays.

“Hey, wait.”

Jon stopped. Tracey raised his face and puckered his lips, an unspoken request for a kiss. He went to him, bending to give a tender, slightly wet kiss, promising good things to come. Maybe Tracey just needed a few minutes to decompress, throw off the day with his clothes.

When he straightened, he ran a hand over Tracey’s wet head and down over his cheek. “Perry said you did good today. I’m going to pick out a bottle of wine to go with dinner. Any preference?”

Tracey smiled, leaning into his hand. “Whatever you want.”

As Jon left, he heard Tracey submerge again.

The basement door was located on the back side of the main staircase, and Jon jogged down the second flight, keeping an ear out for the telltale drain of the tub.

The steps opened into the center of a large rec room in the basement. A bar to the right held Jon’s wine fridge with his modest collection. He didn’t fully stock the bar—the temptation toward alcoholism was well known among the FBI, particularly in the BAU, and he wasn’t dancing with that devil—but he liked a good glass of wine with dinner sometimes. And when he did have guests, he liked to offer options.

His ex-fiancé, Erik, had outfitted the basement with dreams of entertaining. Left of the stairs was a large seating area with a big flatscreen and a couple of gaming consoles. Jon also kept a small bookshelf with his favorite detective novels down here, though most of the time, he sold what he read to a second-hand shop. There were pool and foosball tables behind the sofa. Along the rear wall, on the back side of the stairs, was the door to the lone bedroom.

Next to the bar was an open archway to a utility room off the main rec room with the breaker box. There was a shelving unit housing his Christmas decorations and storage tubs with some sentimental items from his and Danny’s childhoods. Erik had equipped the front half of the utility room with weights. Jon had replaced what Erik had taken with an elliptical and new weights.

On the left wall, just before the HVAC equipment, a door led to a storage room. It once held Erik’s camping gear and miscellaneous stuff. Without Erik’s things, the room had sat empty for a long time.

Then Jon changed the entrance to a magnetic door without a doorknob so it looked like a blank wall. It hadn’t made sense at the time, except as a way to forget about the literal empty space so he could ignore the metaphorical hole in his heart. Over time, that hole had healed.

The empty room had remained. Then it became the perfect place to hide his side investigation into the Hypnotist case. If the Bureau found out, he’d be in deep shit. He was harboring a growing number of secrets from the FBI, it seemed.

No one entering the basement would suspect anything was there, let alone a whole room full of smuggled documents from the Bureau.

He pressed on the door, its latch releasing to reveal the interior of his secret office, complete with a corkboard wall. Pushpins marked every location of known Hypnotist crimes. He hadn’t bothered with string, but he had color-coded the pushpins by timeframe and severity. Blue for home invasions, orange for dual attacks, and red for murders. They were all outside the DC boundary. Overhead, the fluorescent light buzzed when he flicked it on.

Today, while listening to Kelly Wright fall apart over her husband’s secrets, Jon mentally flashed to this room, his secret from the FBI, from Tracey. From everyone.

He looked around. Could he tell Tracey?

It wasn’t just the obsessive corkboard. Files spread over a desk, notes lay everywhere, and a small file cabinet overflowed with the leads he’d built and chased to their dead ends.

Would Tracey think he was crazy? Fixated?

Jon backed out of the room slowly, shut off the light, and pressed the door closed so it blended with the wall again.

Not yet. Jon wouldn’t hide this forever, but he needed to be sure he and Tracey were solid first.

It was still too soon. Tracey was dealing with a lot with his leg.

He went to the wine rack and selected a bottle, ascended the steps two at a time, and turned the light off. His secret returned to darkness.

He opened the wine to breathe and picked up the menu for the Italian place, ordering through the app. He passed his accumulated rewards savings on to the driver as a big tip for dragging them out so late.

Tracey finished his bath and entered the family room where Jon lounged on the couch, feet up.

“Dinner should be about twenty minutes.”

“Have you ever hooked up with Patrick?”

Jon tilted his head. “No, and I’ve never wanted to. Come here.” He dropped his leg to the floor and patted the cushion in front of him.

Tracey shuffled forward. While he sat where Jon had indicated, he decidedly did not lean into him like he’d wanted.

Not pushing, Jon took Tracey’s hand.

“Do you want me to tell him to knock it off?”

Tracey exhaled, eyes closed with obvious resignation. “No. You said he’ll only double down. The Ice Man is a challenge.” He lifted his face and pinned Jon with his steady gaze. “But look me in the eye and promise me there’s nothing there.”

Jon squared his shoulders and adopted his most sincere expression. “I promise you there’s nothing appealing to me about Patrick Byrne. I like him for his IT skills and how they help me do my job better. He’s an asset to the Bureau. That’s my only interest in him.”

Tracey’s shoulders dropped and he turned, letting himself relax against Jon’s chest.

Jon hesitated, but decided a truth, a kernel of it, would help Tracey feel more secure. “Kelly Wright and this conversion therapy business got under my skin today. Especially seeing how broken she was about her husband’s secret.” He rested his cheek to Tracey’s head. “It was sad, how little she knew him. How he had this whole other life she was in the dark about. And then to know his victimology. I can’t even be mad at him for it.” He tightened his arms around Tracey’s shoulders.

“So you’re feeling extra clingy tonight because our victim was shady with his wife?” Tracey gripped Jon’s wrists.

“Not exactly. I… I don’t know how to put it into words. I just want to make sure you and I are solid. That we’re in this together. That you know I’m with you a hundred percent, even if we have to be on the down-low about things.” Even things I can’t tell you yet.

“Ah.” Tracey rested his head on Jon’s shoulder. ”It’s guilt for the secrets.”

Jon swallowed. “Maybe a little? I mean, you’re in the same position as me. We both have the same thing to lose. Our careers.”

“We do.”

“So you get it.”

Tracey was quiet, playing with Jon’s fingers while he seemed to contemplate what Jon was saying.

“Just because I don’t want to lose my job by telling people at work we’re dating doesn’t mean I don’t feel like a dirty little secret, Jon. I hate lying. Understanding why we have to do it doesn’t mean it feels good. It makes me uneasy. On top of everything else, after St. Louis and with my leg….” He trailed off and turned to look up, his blue eyes darker in the soft mood lighting.

Jon’s guts clenched. “No, it doesn’t feel good. I don’t like it either.” He brushed his lips across Tracey’s brow. “How can we fix it?”

A one-sided shrug was all he got in answer. They fell silent for several long minutes.

Finally, Tracey spoke, voice low. “We socialize with coworkers. Our time is spent at work or with colleagues. There’s no fixing it. I’ll just have to deal.”

“Wait. That’s not entirely true. Brian and his boyfriend. They’re not coworkers.”

“Your drinking buddy? What about him?”

“Brian’s my friend, not just a drinking buddy. We can be out as a couple with them. Even if we’re busy and only hang out sometimes, they can at least know who we are to each other. Then we’re less of a secret. In fact, we only need to be a secret at work. We can be a couple literally everywhere else.”

Tracey sat up and turned to regard him with interest. “Won’t that be risky, though? What if we run into someone at the store or a restaurant?”

“It’s not unusual for agents to socialize outside of work. We’ll simply tell people we’re also friends in our personal lives. We don’t even need to say I’m helping you while you’re restricted from driving.” Jon took Tracey’s face in his hands. “Baby, we can figure this out. We’ll be circumspect around coworkers who think we’re friends. To everyone else, we’ll be truthful. No more secrets.” He swallowed down the guilt at the little white lie. He’d tell Tracey about his side project soon. Once he knew this could work, and they were in this together.

This was a good way to know for sure.

Watching Tracey’s face light up was the best feeling in the world. “Okay. When do you want to tell Brian?”

Jon grabbed his phone where it was charging on the side table. “I’ll text him right now.”

Jon

When’s your next night off?

Brian

Monday. Bar’s always closed on Mon.

What’s up?

Jon

Why don’t you come over for dinner? Bring the boyfriend.

Brian

Ohhh-kay. What’s going on?

Jon

It’s just been a while since we’ve hung out. Need a better work-life balance. You free?

Brian

I’ll check with Tristan, but I don’t think he’s got anything on. We should be there.

Jon

Great! Say around 7?

Brian

Yeah, sounds good. I’ll let you know if we can’t make it. Bring anything?

Jon

Wine from the bartender?

Brian

K. See you then.

“We’re all set.” Jon showed Tracey the conversation, then put his phone back on the wireless charging pad.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Full of new energy and generosity, Jon sprang to his feet to get the door, swiping his wallet on the way to throw an even bigger tip the delivery driver’s way.

“ C oming!” Jon jogged down the stairs, suppressing an irritated huff as Perry gave the doorbell several more annoying rings. That irreverent grin greeted him when he flung open the front door. “Was that necessary?”

Saturday or not, they had a new case. Jon’s house was more comfortable than the office and geographically closer to everyone. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d hosted a work gathering.

Perry didn’t wait for an invitation. He breezed past Jon, grocery bags hanging off his wrists, a twelve-pack of Coke tucked under an arm, his laptop bag over his shoulder, and a grease-stained bag from a nearby fast-food place.

“Where are we setting up?”

“We can spread out on the coffee table in the family room so we have access to the TV, but I don’t want you splotching grease bombs on my furniture.”

Perry made a face. “That means sitting on the floor for hours. Have mercy on an old man’s bones.”

“Tracey’s gunshot wound trumps your creaky joints, and he’ll need to put his leg up on the couch after a while.” He indicated the two couches in the family room that created an L-shape around the low glossy coffee table he’d intended for their work.

But Perry had a point, so Jon cast about for a better solution.

“I have an idea.” He lifted the coffee table and set it out of the way in the corner. “Can you help me?”

Perry eventually unburdened himself onto the kitchen island as Jon moved aside two of the chairs at the four-person round-top table in the kitchen’s small breakfast nook. Together, they replaced the coffee table with the table, then brought over the chairs.

“It’s probably too tall to use the couches as seats, but no one has to sit on the floor. Tracey will still be able to stretch out if he needs to, and he can still see the TV screen.” Jon surveyed everything and deemed it a good enough solution.

“My back will thank you in a few hours.” Perry spoke over his shoulder as he returned to his food.

“You eat that in there, though.”

Diving into the grease bag, Perry emerged with a burger, unwrapped the foil, and took a huge bite while standing over the island counter. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Do you even want a plate? A napkin? We could put it all in a blender and you can drink it.” Jon went to the cupboard, brought down a glass, and gave it to Perry after filling it with ice. He dug one of Perry’s Cokes free and slid it toward him. “You could have got some for the rest of us.”

Pouring his soda, Perry shook his head, swallowing a bite. “None of you are helpless. Plus, I’m not clogging anyone’s arteries but my own. There’s no way I’d expand the Ice Man’s perfect waistline with horrid, horrid grease and cheese.” He took an exaggerated bite and chewed with great relish.

Jon finally laughed aloud. “I was going to get a consensus from the group for food. We’ll just ignore you. Are you at least going to share your snacks?” He peered into the grocery bags.

With a big sigh followed by a slurp of his drink, Perry acquiesced. “I suppose. I don’t need a whole box of Pop Tarts to myself.”

Jon opened the pantry door and pulled out a few boxes. “I have some Ritz crackers, Cheez-Its, and popcorn. Plus, hummus and carrot sticks, grapes, and cherry tomatoes in the fridge. I think Tracey has Pop Tarts, too.”

“Nu-uh. I’m not sacrificing my Pop Tarts.” Tracey descended the last step and came into the kitchen, planting his hands firmly in his jeans pockets.

His limp was more pronounced today. Jon tried not to be obvious about noticing. Thursday’s crime scene may have taken more of a toll than Tracey wanted anyone to know. Jon also tried to limit his appreciative once-over for how Tracey’s long-sleeved t-shirt fit that lean frame.

“You’re still staying here?” Perry raised his brows and popped a few fries in his mouth.

“Jon’s still driving me everywhere until the doc clears me. It’s easier if we start and end at the same place. Saves gas.” Tracey delivered the line airily, snagging a fry as he breezed by to pull a glass down.

Perry mimed swatting his hand. “So you’ve spent all of, what, a week in your house? Doesn’t that bug you?”

Tracey shrugged, not looking directly at Perry or Jon. “My newly upgraded security system will warn me if anything happens in my absence.” He filled his glass with filtered water from a pitcher in the fridge. “I do probably need to go back and reacquaint myself with it.” Then he turned, leaning against the counter to regard Perry with interest. “I took this job expecting long stretches away from home, so I purchased in a neighborhood the realtor said I could trust. It’s a family area with a couple of retired folks mixed in and a neighborhood watch. I’m sure it’s fine.”

Perry wadded up his wrapper and dug out a second burger. “Cool. But can you stand never getting a day off? If this guy doesn’t ever stop talking about work, you have my permission to kick him out.” He hooked a thumb in Jon’s direction, then attacked his second sandwich.

“You can’t throw me out of my own house.” Jon tossed Tracey a knowing glance while Perry was occupied.

“It’s big enough, I can escape you. I’ll just hole up downstairs with the pool table. There’s plenty of places to hide down there.”

Jon stiffened at Tracey’s unknown pushing of that particular button, and he had to make himself relax. Luckily, the doorbell rang at the right moment, distracting everyone.

“Sarena. Good, we can get started.” Jon tried not to flee the conversation as he went to answer the door. “Thank God you’re here.” He barely let Sarena acknowledge him before ushering her inside. “Perry’s being inappropriate again.”

“It’s a day ending in ‘y.’” She shrugged out of her jacket and passed it over with her handbag so Jon could hang them up. “What now?”

He led her through to the kitchen. “Well, he started by bringing lunch for himself, so the rest of us can figure one out. Now he’s throwing shade at the rookie for staying here as long as he has.”

She shot Tracey a surprised look. “You’re still living here?”

“No. The image in front of you is a projection of the real Tracey.”

She clucked her tongue. “Smart ass.” Apparently, she decided it didn’t matter where Tracey stayed. Perry had wronged her more. “Why did you only bring lunch for yourself? That’s so rude.”

“That just means we can get something Perry would love and purposefully exclude him.” Tracey grinned.

Sarena’s eyes glittered as she regarded the rookie while Perry spluttered in outrage. “Diabolical. I love it.”

Tracey produced many, many menus and they spent an inordinate amount of time pondering which foods would make Perry the most jealous. He pretended not to care, setting up his laptop in the family room and organizing their files.

Ultimately, Jon reminded them that, as much fun as goading Perry was, they were wasting time. They agreed and chose a big spread of Chinese foods in a quantity they could reheat at dinnertime. Jon was even kind enough to order some entrees Perry favored. Part of the torture, or saving them for dinner? That was up to Perry.

In thirty minutes, they had their food and were settling around the table in the family room to eat and get to work.

“Our Atlanta victim, Wyatt Powell, was found dead in his best friend’s residence. Specifically, in the primary bedroom, in Curtis Donnelly’s bed.” Sarena flipped open the folder, ready to read out specifics, careful not to get any of their lunch on it.

Since Perry wasn’t busy eating, he connected his laptop to the TV above the fireplace so they could share digital media through the bigger screen.

“Perry will play the interview with Donnelly in a minute, but the basics are that Powell died at the beginning of September. The medical examiner’s report says he was strangled, and there was GHB in his system, though not in an incapacitating quantity. Just enough to alter his perception. There was very little trace evidence on the body that couldn’t be tied to the room or the best friend. Epithelial cells on his neck went in for DNA testing, but there was no match in CODIS.” Sarena didn’t bother hiding her disappointment that the FBI’s national database of known DNA profiles hadn’t produced a match to their best piece of forensic evidence. “Donnelly has a solid alibi. Despite his home being the murder scene, the Atlanta PD can’t tie him to the crime. He voluntarily gave a DNA sample, which didn’t match the DNA found on the body.”

Jon furrowed his brow as he hurriedly chewed and swallowed a bite of broccoli covered in brown sauce. “Does Donnelly know more than he’s saying? No direct involvement doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what happened.”

Sarena nodded in Jon’s direction. “That’s the million-dollar question. We have the interrogation video, so we’ll decide that for ourselves. Perry? You wanna play it?”

They often worked from Jon’s house, so his devices were set up with the work servers through a VPN—virtual private network—to ensure encrypted contact with their network files.

Perry navigated to the case files and opened Atlanta PD’s interrogation of Curtis Donnelly.

On the screen, a man slumped in an uncomfortable-looking chair beside a long, narrow table against a white wall in a small room. A box of tissues sat within reach. Everything else was stark and bare. Interrogation room.

Hand buried in his hair, this guy reeked of utter despair even through the video. The recording was decent quality, its perspective high in the corner—not the best angle. The black and white image was relatively sharp, though, so they could still read the suspect’s face: mourning.

The abrupt rattle of the doorknob announced the detective’s entry, and Donnelly straightened, almost startled. He recovered and tried to appear composed, but he licked his lips.

“He’s nervous.” Tracey pointed his fork at the screen, his plate of sweet and sour chicken an afterthought as he watched. He was doing what Jon was also doing—reading the subject’s body language. “I bet he’s sweating. Damn, I hate watching this on a screen.”

“It’s better than reading a transcript.” Sarena didn’t take her eyes off the TV. They were all glued.

“True.” Tracey conceded.

The detective stood in the man’s view, but didn’t block the camera. “Mr. Donnelly, I’m Detective Augustine Beaumont. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Donnelly gestured to the empty chair at the other end of the interrogation table but remained quiet.

Beaumont sat and tested the chair’s recline limits, the picture of unhurried leisure. But he stayed at a distance from the suspect. “You’re a smart man, Mr. Donnelly. I’m sure you know we’re recording this interview. If you wouldn’t mind, I need you to speak up so our equipment can catch your words. We need them for the record, okay?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. Now do you mind speaking with me tonight?”

“I don’t mind.”

“Thank you. If at any time you decide you don’t want to talk anymore, you have that right. You can request an attorney at any time, and we’ll end the interview. Do you understand? You’re choosing to speak to me right now, and you have been advised of your right to remain silent, and of your right to have an attorney present?”

“I understand and choose to answer your questions without an attorney. For now.”

Detective Beaumont rattled off the date and time, their names, his badge number, the case number, and then he regarded Curtis Donnelly carefully while leaning back as far as the chair would allow.

“Let’s start at the beginning. Were you at home at all this evening?”

“No, sir. I have a standing game night once a month, so I was at a friend’s house most of the night. I didn’t get home until around four this morning.”

“What sort of game night is it?”

“We play poker. Usually Texas Hold ’Em, but sometimes Five Card Draw. If we get tired of that, we switch to Three Card Monte.” Donnelly’s Southern drawl was smooth, and Jon made several observations in quick succession.

First, Curtis Donnelly was well-spoken despite the loss of his friend and the suspicion he was under. The man was accustomed to high-pressure situations.

Second, since the detective had entered the interrogation room, Donnelly’s posture indicated he was gearing up for a battle. What kind of battle that was, Jon still wasn’t sure. But as Jon watched the screen, a sleeping dragon awoke and unfurled beneath Donnelly’s skin. A subtle ruthlessness seemed to flex through his posture and his tone.

Curtis Donnelly squared off with Detective Beaumont, and while Beaumont may know Donnelly as an adversary, he may not have understood the stakes of the game they were playing. The detective wasn’t a dumb man—one didn’t work homicide in a major metropolitan city like Atlanta without a heap of intelligence and wits—but Jon wasn’t so sure he hadn’t met a match he wasn’t prepared for.

Jon’s final observation at this point of the taping: Curtis Donnelly came from money. He’d had practice schooling his features, holding his shoulders square, keeping still, and limiting fidgeting and other self-soothing behaviors that typical suspects weren’t even aware of. Other than the first indication of nerves Tracey had caught—licking his lips—Donnelly locked himself down.

Oh, he appeared open to answering the questions, but he was smooth and guarded. There were layers here, for damn sure.

Detective Beaumont circled him like a trained fighter, still assessing his opponent. “Who else was there? We’ll need their names and contact information to verify your presence and what time you arrived and left.”

“Certainly.” Donnelly provided the names of five other men, their phone numbers, and about what time he recollected the card party had begun to wind down.

“Was there any drinking or drugs at this party?”

Donnelly took a deep breath and released it slowly. “We may have a few beers as the night goes on, but no one really drinks to excess. None of us are into drugs at the best of times, but certainly not with the amounts of money we play with. Detective, we’re talking several thousand dollars per hand. Over several hours, that can really add up. Getting significantly impaired makes no sense. None of us want big losses because we snorted our stupidity.”

“So most of your friends will have good enough memories to vouch for you.”

Donnelly shrugged as though the question was of little consequence. “Easily. If anyone drinks too much to operate a car, there’s always a couch or guest room. We aren’t college kids anymore. I haven’t partied that hard in a while, Detective, and neither have my friends.”

“What about Wyatt? Does he party like that? Or drink to excess to the point where he has to sleep it off at your house rather than go home?”

Donnelly released a sigh as though the answer pained him, but he’d give it anyway. “Wyatt has a key to my place because he’s my best friend and always has… had a place to go, no matter the reason. He and Lydia are having marital troubles at the moment. I’ve given him blanket permission to stay at my house when they fight. Drunk or sober, he doesn’t have to ask to use my place.”

“Is it normal for him to sleep in your bed?”

“When he knows I’m going to be out most of the night, sure.”

The detective pursed his lips, bouncing the end of a pen on a legal pad. “If you’d come home tonight to find him in your bed, would you have simply crawled in beside him and thought nothing of it?”

Donnelly blinked at him. “Detective, I’ve known Wyatt since we were in the fourth grade. We’ve shared tents, bunk beds, slept side by side on the floor, and yes, we’ve slept in the same bed before when the situation required. Usually in a hotel or vacation rental with limited space. I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

“I’m just curious why Wyatt Powell would choose to crawl into bed in the primary bedroom when you have three guest rooms with perfectly serviceable beds. If you’re as close as you say, he’d know which beds are the best to crash in when you’re not home. Would he not?”

Donnelly narrowed his eyes. “Wyatt and Lydia’s marriage is in shambles, and he wasn’t in the greatest headspace. It’s possible he drank a lot after he got to my house. My bar’s at his disposal, too. Maybe he got confused which bed to sleep in. Or maybe he just wanted to make sure I knew he was there when I got home. I can’t really ask him, now, can I?”

Detective Beaumont said nothing for a long moment. “No, Mr. Donnelly, you can’t. Were you aware Mr. Powell had a substance abuse problem?”

Donnelly snorted like it was a dumb question. “Yes.”

“Do you know what substances we might find?”

“Maybe coke. Maybe Gina or Molly. Maybe just alcohol.”

“Gina is GHB, right?”

“Yes.”

“GHB and alcohol can be a terrible combination. That right there could be what killed him.”

Donnelly gave Beaumont an unimpressed look. “Wyatt knew what he could and couldn’t mix. If he was on GHB, he wasn’t drinking. Trust me.”

“Except for the alcohol, these are the kinds of substances that make a person feel uninhibited. More likely to take risks or look for certain things. You know anything about that?”

The clench of Donnelly’s jaw was a hint, but he only nodded.

“Please answer verbally for our recording, Mr. Donnelly.”

“Yes, there were times Wyatt would take substances that made… things more intense.”

“Like sex? Was Wyatt having an affair? Is that why he and Lydia were having trouble in their marriage?”

With a deep breath, Donnelly found a new reserve of patience. “Wyatt and Lydia were not a good match, except on paper and in bank accounts. Their marriage was arranged by Wyatt’s grandfather, Hanover Powell. I’m sure you’ve heard the name. He owns White Oak Film and Sound, which runs several news networks, a movie production studio, a film academy, and a bunch of smaller recording studios throughout the South. Lydia comes from Hollywood royalty. She’s a Warner, and tying the families together made sense for both sides.

“They understood what was at stake when they went ahead with the arrangement. It was purely to build money and power for both families. It was not a love match. So they had an understanding to maintain appearances, be kind to each other, and be discreet to preserve their families’ reputations.

“However, she’s grown tired of waiting for an amicable divorce. She’s fallen for her affair partner and wants to split sooner than the agreed-upon timeline so she can finally have her love match. Wyatt wants… wanted to stick to the original timeline. There’s a lot at stake that she either doesn’t understand, or she no longer cares to try.” Donnelly shook his head, his sadness becoming palpable even through the screen. “She’s forgotten their pact to be kind to each other.”

He fell silent for several moments, and Beaumont showed his seasoned interrogator skills by giving the man time to gather his thoughts. When Donnelly spoke again, his voice was less composed. “Lydia could never fathom what Wyatt gave up for her in the first place, but at least in the beginning, they were friends. When she stopped treating him like a human and started acting like he was her personal ATM card while she flaunted her side piece, yeah, he got a little unbalanced. He numbed himself with alcohol most of the time. When that didn’t work, he’d try forgetting her with someone anonymous.” Donnelly’s hands went out, palms up in a beseeching manner. “Can you blame him? She’s made a mockery of him to everyone. All he wanted was the future they agreed to. She’s the one who’s gone back on her word.”

“So if I asked you who you believe could do this to Wyatt, you’d say Lydia?”

Donnelly shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe? She’s not trustworthy, and she really wanted that divorce. But to take away her children’s father…. I just, I don’t know that she’s capable of….” His voice hitched. “This. Oh God.”

For the first time since Beaumont had entered the room, real emotion overtook Curtis Donnelly. His hand shook as he pressed the back to his mouth, his breaths coming in great hiccups.

Beaumont passed over the box of tissues. “Take your time, Mr. Donnelly.”

Donnelly stood and paced, hands on his hips as he walked. His face was raised to the ceiling. He didn’t mutter to himself. Detective Beaumont wheeled the chair into the corner, out of Donnelly’s way while he tried to regain control.

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t resume his seat, but he did lower his face to look at the detective. “It’s just”—he sucked in a breath—“difficult to think of his kids. Growing up without him. I don’t know that Lydia could be that cold to her own children. To hire a hitman, I mean. That sounds so crazy. I can’t even imagine her doing such a thing.”

Beaumont watched him closely, obviously catching the inconsistency in what a hitman would do to a person and the way Wyatt Powell’s body had been found. “I understand. Wyatt was your best friend. You were very close. Probably the closest anyone was to him.”

Donnelly slowed and turned to stare at the detective, and Jon saw it again: that dragon inside, assessing what the detective might know. It clearly helped him catch his breath. He resumed his seat.

“Yes, I was Wyatt’s best friend. Probably the only person in his life who cared about him and not what status my knowing him could get me.”

“So you very likely knew everything about Wyatt Powell. Is that a fair assumption?”

Donnelly gave a slow, careful nod. “It is.”

“Then it won’t surprise you to learn Mr. Powell entertained a guest shortly before his passing?”

Donnelly blinked. “Like I said, he had a key to my house, and I gave him carte blanche to use it as a place to escape and forget his problems. He would have known I was out for the majority of the night. If he needed company, that was fine with me, and I’d rather he use the discretion of my home than be reckless like Lydia.”

“That’s very generous of you, Mr. Donnelly.”

“I trust Wyatt. Completely.”

“Even if he were bringing men to your place?”

Donnelly swallowed. “If that’s what he needed.”

Detective Beaumont nodded as if he expected that answer. “If I were to ask you for a DNA sample, would you provide one willingly?”

“I am not the man you’re looking for, Detective.”

Showing his palms, Beaumont adopted a placating tone. “Then you’ll have no reason to worry, and every reason to help us eliminate you from our suspect pool so we can catch the real suspect.”

“Fine.” Donnelly’s lips were thin but he didn’t balk. He wasn’t happy, though.

“We’d like your fingerprints, too.”

“Whatever you need, Detective. You do realize my fingerprints and DNA should be in my home, and around my bed. If you get a match, it won’t be a revelation.”

“I understand, Mr. Donnelly.” Beaumont gave nothing else away.

Donnelly scrutinized the detective. “Is this your roundabout way of telling me this was no hitman-for-hire? That it’s how you found the DNA and fingerprints that matter?”

Detective Beaumont studied Donnelly. “At this time, the evidence doesn’t support a hired hit theory. Mr. Powell’s killer is likely someone he knew. Intimately.”

Donnelly blanched. “I’ll cooperate, Detective. Please find whoever did this.” He paused, gaze boring directly into the camera, then back at Beaumont. “If I may ask one favor while you’re conducting your investigation.”

“You can ask.” Beaumont wasn’t unkind, but any smart investigator would make no promises.

“Treat Wyatt with as much dignity as you can. He wasn’t some junkie who deserved this kind of death. He was a man trapped in a cage not of his own making. He wanted a solution that didn’t burn everything and everyone he loved. He just… coped how he could and paid the ultimate price for it. He deserves peace now.”

Beaumont’s features cracked, and for the first time in the video, his expression turned sorrowful. “I’ll do my best, Mr. Donnelly.”

“Can I go now?”

Detective Beaumont didn’t answer immediately, but finally nodded and stood. “Samples and fingerprints first, but after that, yes, you can go. Stay in the area, Mr. Donnelly. We may need to speak to you again.”

Perry paused the recording while Sarena flipped open Wyatt Powell’s case file again.

Jon sat back, trying not to let Tracey’s stretch nearby get his attention. “Where are we with forensics exactly? This one seems more promising with a DNA sample.”

Sarena scanned the file to remind herself of details she’d likely already read. “The perp wiped down the body, same as the other scenes, but he wasn’t as thorough this time. He left epithelial cells in the creases of this victim’s neck, so it’s tiny, but it’s a DNA sample. There was also an unknown fingerprint lifted from the primary bathroom faucet that doesn’t match Donnelly or Powell. The autopsy revealed signs of rough anal sex, just like with Ethan Wright. Toxicology came back with trace amounts of GHB in Powell’s system.

“Atlanta PD requested a warrant from the victim’s phone data, specifically for his Smoldr profile—and yes, he had one despite everyone in his life but Donnelly swearing left, right, and center that Wyatt Powell was a straight man—but Smoldr isn’t playing. They want specific usernames to produce the data requested. Unfortunately, no profiles in his app showed setting up a meeting with Powell the night of the murder, so APD couldn’t provide Smoldr any usernames. Either Powell used the disappearing messages feature, or the perp got into his phone during their encounter and deleted the message history.”

“Shit.” Jon ran his fingers through his hair. He was starting to hate Smoldr.

“Do you think Patrick would help us?” Tracey looked at him hopefully. “Not pulling data, just looking if it’s there so we have a name?”

“What would we base the warrant on?” Sarena’s tone was not unkind.

“No.” Jon was already shaking his head. “Patrick is strictly by the book on every case. He won’t go beyond the scope of a warrant because if he does it once, all the warrants he’s ever touched are tainted if he’s caught. It could be grounds for hundreds or even thousands of perps getting convictions thrown out.”

Tracey pursed his lips, disappointment slumping his shoulders, but he nodded. “Yeah, we can’t risk that at all. We need the usernames.” He flipped a hand toward the TV. “Donnelly seems to know this victim really well. Maybe we can get him to tell us more. It’s clear he’s holding out on the detective.”

On the screen, Donnelly and Beaumont were frozen. Throughout the questioning, Donnelly hadn’t displayed most of the tells they watched for when someone wasn’t being entirely truthful.

His feet had stayed still. Most people who felt culpable pointed their feet away from their accuser, as though they wanted to flee. His knees didn’t bounce to betray his nerves. In fact, the wetting of his lips at the beginning was the only sign of nerves he gave away the whole time. Once he’d calmed from that single emotional moment when it seemed Powell’s death had really, truly sunk in, he’d sat again, cupping his elbows with his palms in what could be a self-soothing hug. Such was a normal reaction to grief. Or it could have been a calculated grip to keep himself contained and stop from showing signs of responsibility. His chin stayed up while he met the detective’s questions head on. He didn’t overthink his answers.

Jon didn’t think Donnelly was responsible for Wyatt Powell’s death, but he did think he had more of the story. That story, however, remained hidden.

For the next half-hour, they speculated about Donnelly’s motivation. Tracey got up to put away their nearly forgotten leftovers when Perry slipped off to the bathroom.

“Do you mind if I borrow a bathroom upstairs?” Sarena stood and drained her beloved travel mug. “I had two coffees this morning before switching to water, and I’m not sure I want to follow after Perry’s had fast food.”

Jon grinned. “Sure. Top of the stairs, both bedrooms to the left of the balcony have bathrooms. Take your pick.”

She cocked her head with a brief, curious pause. “Thanks.”

Jon scooted into the kitchen to help Tracey put away the food and plate up some snacks.

“We should work here more often.” Tracey bumped his shoulder while he stole the faucet, flipped the water temperature to hot, and filled a kettle for tea. He’d taken to drinking peppermint tea to help soothe his stomach because the painkillers had not been kind. While he’d long stopped taking the narcotics regularly, ibuprofen was sometimes hard on him, too. The tea had stuck. “This is much more comfortable than the office.”

Jon bumped his shoulder back. “There are too many unknowns with the technology. It’s fine every so often, but it’s safer to stick to the systems at work.”

“Point taken.”

Stepping closer, Jon quashed the urge to put his hands on Tracey’s hips and kiss the back of his neck. The others could reappear at any moment.

“Plus, I don’t want them invading our space that often.” He kept his voice low. “It blurs the lines.” Tracey stiffened, so Jon went on quickly. “We can be open with Brian and Tristan on Monday. I want home to be comfortable for us as much as possible. We just have to be careful with this specific company.”

He stepped away and moved to the island to pluck freshly washed grapes off the stems, leaving Tracey to ponder that.

Perry came back first, followed by Sarena, who refilled her water with the pitcher from the fridge before sitting down. She directed Perry to which interview to call up next, one of the Chicago cases.

Tracey took several more minutes to steep his tea and warm a Pop Tart.

Jon studied him while he finished with the grapes, then grabbed the hummus and veggie platter and followed. He didn’t miss how Tracey quickly popped a couple of ibuprofen with his first sip of tea. They’d definitely continue that conversation later. Tracey seemed to be running hot and cold, and Jon wasn’t sure it was only Perry and Sarena’s presence.

“Do we have transcripts for interviews? We’ll be here forever if we have to watch hours of interrogations.” Jon wasn’t his usual workaholic self today.

Sarena reached for the files stacked at the table’s edge. “Yeah. It’s better to get body language from the videos, but we can always read the transcript and zoom to the relevant moments if that’s faster.” She passed over a sheaf of papers.

“Let’s do that.”