“It’s possible.”

  Swinney smirked. “I just stopped by here to see if she might show up with the corpse. I guess I’m not going to be that lucky. If you spot her, let me know, all right? Cravens put Lender and me on finding the resurrected Christ.”

  “You’re both out of your damn minds,” Hazard said.

  Kelley Jane must have struck a note with her audience because the crowd erupted into another celestial chorus, and Swinney’s smirk soured. “You two call it a night. I’ll stick around and see if the river turns to blood or wine or whatever the hell it’s supposed to.”

  “If it turns to wine,” Somers said, “call. No matter what time. If it’s blood it can wait, but if it’s wine, just keep calling.”

  “Come on,” Hazard said, towing him away from Swinney and the mob.

  “Especially if it’s red wine,” Somers shouted as Hazard hauled him towards the parking lot.

  At the edge of the asphalt, though, Hazard halted and swore.

  “Looks like someone isn’t going to let an opportunity go to waste,” Somers said.

  News vans bracketed a portion of the parking lot, where men and women scrambled to run lights and mics and cameras into position. Illuminated at the center stood Peyton Laflamme and another woman. The reporter had buried her face under an inch of cosmetics, and if anyone ever gave her a kiss, he’d risk getting his eye popped by her lash extensions. She held a mic, and she was leaning in towards Peyton, already spinning questions.

  Peyton had cleaned herself up. Mommy’s money had done a fair deal to improve her looks in just a day: she’d ditched the Mennonite dress, and she’d had her hair trimmed and highlighted and curled, and her face was buried just about as deep as the reporter’s. The eyes, though, hadn’t changed. They were still street-magician eyes like she knew every dirty trick and could run them cold.

  As Hazard and Somers drew closer, the reporter’s voice carried across the asphalt. “—what you’re doing here?”

  “I’m here to be a voice for the voiceless.” Peyton paused, wiped at her eyes, and faced into the camera. “I’m here because there are other people, good people, who can’t be.”

  “Miss Laflamme, it would be an understatement to say the world is surprised to find you here. From what you’ve told us, you’ve been through a harrowing experience: kidnapping, brainwashing, imprisonment, abuse. You only recently managed to escape, is that right?”

  This time, Peyton didn’t wipe her eyes; the tears were flowing prettily now, and she was making the most of them. “That’s right, Barbara. From the first day they took me to that horrible cave, I knew I had to escape. It took me a long time to find an opportunity, but when I did, I ran.”

  “And you did this all by yourself?”

  “I had to. But I knew I wasn’t really alone. I knew my moms were out there, praying for me. I knew they wanted me to come back home.”

  “We heard that a young man from town was integral to your escape.”

  The flicker of rage in Peyton’s face was hard to miss, but she masked it quickly. “Yes. He was a stranger. A Good Samaritan. I’ll always be grateful to him.”

  “Mr. Kolosik told us he’s not a stranger to you. In fact, he told us that he’s the—”

  “Barbara, I’d like to say something if I may. I’d like to say that what’s happening behind me, this—this insanity, it has to be stopped. The leaders of this cult are vicious, manipulative people. They have no morals. They have no qualms. They steal and rape and murder in the name of Our Lord Jesus, and I’m calling for whoever—the police, the FBI, whoever—to come and take them down. I lost my mother because of these people. I lost my life.”

  Peyton dissolved into weeping, and Barbara hugged her—dangerous, Hazard thought, with those damn lash extensions about to rake Peyton’s face.

  “Pretty good show,” Somers said. “I wish you’d brought popcorn.”

  “What’s her angle?”

  “Mom’s dead. She’s rich. And now she’s going to be famous. Book rights, movie rights, exclusive interviews. If you play it right, there can be a lot of money in being a victim.”

  Hazard nodded, but he studied the scene in front of him. Peyton had played it perfectly. The only wrong note had been her anger, and she had hidden it well. Now, sobbing in Barbara’s well-toned arms, Peyton was well on her way to making herself a media sensation.

  Movement caught Hazard’s eye, and he squinted into the darkness beyond the halo of portable lights and boom mics. A dark-haired young man paced, hands deep in his pockets, his face tight with anger. Rex Kolosik hugged the ring of light, skirted it, drawn like a moth to the flame. And then he stopped, his gaze fixed on Peyton like a man who’d just made a very hard decision.

  THEY DECIDED TO CALL IT A NIGHT. Whatever leads they could still run down would wait until the morning, and Swinney and Lender were looking into Walden’s vanished corpse.

  Inside their apartment, Somers slid out of his coat and removed his holstered gun. Hazard came behind him, a brooding mass of dark hair and muscle. Somers paused in the living room and cracked his neck. Big hands settled on his shoulders. Hazard worked his thumbs into muscle, hard, almost hard enough to hurt.

  “God,” Somers said. “I love when you do that.”

  “You like a massage, huh?”

  “I like when you touch me. When you do it just because you want to.” Hazard’s hands were warm, almost hot, and strong. He dug deep into the tender tissue, his fingers finding knots of tension.

  “Like this?” Hazard asked, his voice guttural, almost a growl, as one hand slid across Somers’s chest and flicked a button loose. Then another. And then another, and his hand was inside, separated from flesh by only the thin cotton undershirt.

  “Yeah,” Somers said, but it didn’t really come out like a word.

  “And this?” Through the cotton, Hazard’s fingers tightened on Somers’s nipple.

  “Fuck yeah.”

  Hazard undid another button. His fingers trailed across Somers’s chest, and Somers tried to turn around.

  “No,” Hazard said.

  “You’re a tease.”

  His fingers twisted Somers’s nipple again, harder, and Somers cried out. He rocked forward a little, thrusting weakly, his whole body suddenly quaking under Hazard’s touch.

  “What the hell got into you?” Somers breathed.

  “You’ve been trying to rile me all day,” came the response, hot on his neck.

  “I was just—ah, God. I was just giving you shit.”

  “Where’s that ice cream sundae?” Another button came loose.

  “Just rip it off. Just rip it all off.”

  “No. I’ve been practicing with your buttons. I’m getting good, aren’t I?”

  “Just fucking rip my fucking shirt off.”

  Hazard’s stubbled chin scrubbed the back of Somers’s neck. “Not a chance.”

  Somers reached back, groped along Hazard’s muscled thigh, and found his dick. Rock hard. Hazard’s breathing quickened, and he pressed into Somers’s touch.

  Hazard tried with the last two buttons, and then he swore and yanked the shirt so hard they popped off. Stumbling forward, carrying Somers with him, he crashed into the bedroom. His big paws tugged the cotton undershirt over Somers’s head, while Somers unfastened Hazard’s shirt, his holstered gun, his belt, his trousers.

  Each man kicking his way free of his clothes, they tumbled onto the bed, and Hazard caught Somers’s jaw and kissed him, a bruising kiss, and his teeth caught Somers’s lip and pulled until Somers whimpered.

  “You make me crazy,” Hazard growled, spreading Somers’s legs, peppering his mouth with kisses. “You do it on purpose.” His free hand clutched Somers’s jaw again. “Don’t you?”

  “Yes. Yes, fuck, yes.” Somers eased himself against Hazard, sliding his prick over the bristles on Hazard’s stomach until Hazard flattened him against the mattress. Somers whined. What he wanted, what he needed, Hazard was holding back. He thrust upward, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t achieve any sort of stimulation, and he moaned into Hazard’s shoulder and then bit him. Hard.

  “You want to get rough?”

  Everything came down to a white, hissing static of need. “Fuck me,” Somers whimpered.

  But Hazard didn’t. Instead, he kissed him. Long, soulful kisses. He nipped at Somers’s neck. He chewed his earlobes until Somers was panting and rocking against him. But when Somers reached for his dick, Hazard twisted his hand away, and when Somers tried to flip Hazard onto his back, Hazard just laughed and kissed him harder.

  And then Somers knew what Hazard wanted. He didn’t know it in a rational way. He didn’t have anything rational left inside him. All he had was that hot, throbbing need. But he remembered how Hazard had reacted to the voice Somers had used, the harsh, threatening voice. And then he knew.

  He caught a handful of Hazard’s hair. Jerking his head back—hard, almost too hard—Somers said, “Stop.” And he used that voice, and he watched Hazard’s pupils blow wider than a barn door, and he felt Hazard tremble. And Somers knew what Hazard wanted. What he needed. He knew Hazard was waiting for permission.

  “Fuck me,” Somers said in that same demanding voice. “Now. Hard.”

  And Hazard did. And it was rougher than Somers had expected, but that white crackle of need inside him didn’t care—if anything, it only made the fire hotter. And when it was over, Hazard was shaking, his shoulders dewed with sweat, his whole body glistening like he’d showered in moonlight, and Somers barely saw him, barely knew where they were, because he’d just had his brains knocked into the stratosphere.

  They lay like that a while, with Hazard sprawled on top of Somers, their breathing evening out, a kind of harmony. Sodium light from the street dusted the room in granules, here and there, and Hazard’s heartbeat thumped inside Somers’s chest. Somers turned, pressing his mouth to Hazard’s cheek, partly to taste his sweat, partly a kiss, partly because he didn’t think he could move much more than that.

  With a groan, Hazard propped himself on an elbow. He met Somers’s eyes, and he ran the back of his fingers over Somers’s chin. The skin there was tender; Somers expected he’d see bruising in the morning, and how the hell was he going to explain that. But it was Hazard’s expression that hooked his attention. The particulate light from the street stippled Hazard’s face. One scarecrow eye glowed like a sunset. The other was lost in darkness. Dark hair flopped over his forehead, curling like Superman’s hair, but Hazard didn’t look like Superman. He looked freaked out.

  “I’m not made of glass, you know,” Somers said, and the smile on his face felt sleepy and hot as summer sunlight.

  “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to—”

  “Ree, that’s what I wanted. Exactly that. I might not be able to walk tomorrow, but it’s still what I wanted. I thought that’s what you wanted too.”

  Hazard knit his brows, and the expression, combined with the dark curls hanging over his eyes, made him look boyish and vulnerable.

  Laughing, Somers stretched up to kiss him. “I did. Don’t look at me like that. I’ve never done it that way before. It was fun.”

  “Fun?” His voice raised the hackles on Somers’s neck.

  “Memorable?”

  “I’m not running a souvenir stand.”

  “How about perfect?” Somers kissed him again, threading his fingers through the long, dark curls and sweeping them away from Hazard’s face. “Perfect for tonight, anyway.”

  “John, your jaw, and the way I . . .”

  “Yes or no: you had fun?”

  Hazard nodded slowly. The light dusting his face shifted, speckling his shoulders and back.

  “All right?”

  He nodded again.

  Somers kissed him. “Then how about you spoon me? I can’t breathe with a Neanderthal crashed on top.”

  With this request, Hazard seemed happy to comply, and he scooped Somers into the curve of his body, and he mouthed kisses, barely more than breaths, on the line of Somers’s neck.

  Lying there, Somers thought about the man who held him. Emery Hazard was many things: brilliant, thoughtful, careful, precise. He was handsome. He was strong. He was loving. He was, Somers thought with a dangerous stutter of his heart, loyal, and that worried Somers. At the edge of conscious thought, Somers knew an ugly truth about himself. He never looked it straight on, but he had glimpsed it, he knew its contours and its shade. When things got hard, John-Henry Somerset took off. That was his thing. He’d go drink. He’d disappear with friends. He’d just finished a year-long divorce; wasn’t that proof that he was a runner, that when it mattered most, he wouldn’t stick around?

  So far with Hazard, since they had become lovers as well as partners, things had been perfect. The days. The nights. Meals. Sex. The case. With Emery Hazard, perfect had a lot of sharp edges. They fought. Somers went out of his way to annoy Hazard. And Hazard brooded and sulked and overthought nine things out of ten. But as far as anything serious went, everything had been perfect between them. And that was scarier than if they’d had a real fight. If they had a real fight, Somers knew, everything he’d worked for would get ripped off like a dirty bandage. And underneath, underneath would be the old, festering wounds from the past. Because people might change, but the past never changed. And Somers knew that what he’d done, the ways he’d hurt Hazard, that couldn’t be forgiven. So he knew it was coming. He knew the day was coming when the past would come roaring back at them, when it would shred this perfect thing between them, and he knew he deserved it. He knew it was the least he deserved. And this, tonight—Somers had relished the hurt and the stretch and the burn. He had wanted it. It had been hot, yes. Damn hot. But also because of the past. Because it was the closest he could come to—

  “John. John. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Your heart is going a mile a minute.” Hazard nipped at his ear. Those big, strong fingers landed on Somers’s jaw like butterfly wings. “Jesus, how bad did I—”

  “Will you cut it out with that already?” Somers rolled to face Hazard, overcome again by the brutish good looks, the dark hair spilling loose and wild. And overcome, too, by the shiny scar, three lines like three sides of a square on Hazard’s chest. That was the past, that scar. Somers had held Hazard’s arm while a psycho named Mikey Grames tried to carve his last name into Hazard’s chest. And who could ever forgive something like that? He couldn’t even forget it, not with it carved into his chest, not with a scar. Maybe that’s all the past was: infection, old wounds, damaged tissue.

  They watched each other for a minute, and gooseflesh pimpled Somers skin because even now, twenty years later, he loved the way Hazard looked at him. The scarecrow eyes glittered, the color of corn at harvest, moving down Somers’s body, seeming to take in everything. Somers had slept with a fair share of men and women, but nobody had ever looked at him with the same raw desire as Hazard.

  Hazard’s mitt rested on the center of Somers’s chest, and one finger stubbed against a swirl of calligraphic ink.

  “Tell me about this.”

  “You know.”

  “Tell me again.” And his touch drifted along the tattoo, his finger callused, so rough that it felt like it was drawing sparks from Hazard’s skin.

  “I was in college. I knew I wanted to be a cop. This meant something to me. It was what I wanted. What I believed.”

  “What?”

  “Learn to do well; seek judgment, relieve the oppressed, judge the fatherless, plead for the widow.”

  “It’s Hebrew.” His fingertip glided around Somers’s areola, and Somers heard his breath deepen, felt his nipples stiffen.

  “Yeah.” That was my voice, Somers thought, my voice sounding like I’m stoned out of my mind.

  “It’s from the Bible.” He reversed direction, compassing the areola.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  Somers had to clear his throat. “I told you.”

  “No. Why the Bible?”

  “I heard it. In church. I knew it when I heard it. I knew it was important to me.”

  And there was something there, in that moment, suspended in the night between them like the ghostly citylight that pebbled the room. Something wrong. Somers could sense it. Something had gone wrong. He had said the wrong thing, somehow. He could sense it, even though neither of them had moved or spoken or breathed.

  But then Hazard ducked in and kissed him. His hand slid along the curve of Somers’s waist, cupped his ass, drew him closer. He kissed him again.

  Giggling into the Hazard’s stubble, Somers said, “Are you serious?”

  “We got the fucking out of the way. Now I want to make love.” His hand slid between Somers’s legs, probing.

  “Ree.” Somers gasped. “Ree, I don’t know. We—ah, God. We went pretty hard.”

  With a grin and another kiss, Hazard rolled onto his back and drew up his knees. “Then I guess you’re going to have to do the hard work.”

  SOMERS SLEPT WELL, ALTHOUGH NOT as long as he might have liked. He scrambled eggs while Hazard showered, and they ate quietly together, Hazard reading the news on his tablet, Somers catching up on his phone. There was nothing different about any morning, except that Hazard touched Somers more: his hand rested on Somers’s knee as they ate; he curled his fingers around his neck while they read; he kissed him, lips and cheek, before carrying the plates to the sink. And Somers wasn’t sure why it made him nervous.

  He had told Hazard, hadn’t he? His recollections were fuzzy from the hammering passion of the night before, but he had told him he liked to be touched. He had told him he liked to be touched just because Hazard wanted to touch him. And maybe that’s what this was. Maybe that’s all it was—Hazard was, after all, observant, practical, and good at carrying out a plan. He was just adapting to what Somers had told him. That’s all.

  Except that his fingers dug into Somers’s knee. And his grip on Somers’s neck was tight. And the kisses seemed too . . . well, Somers wasn’t sure. Hazard was a hell of a good kisser, but there was something about the kisses that had seemed almost desperate. And again Somers found himself thinking of the past, of scar tissue, of a world written in stone. But that wasn’t it, he told himself. He was just imagining things.