Chapter 10

Chapter

Ten

F or all the years Jon dreaded sleep and even avoided it, to be wishing for it now felt foreign. Beside him, Tracey’s soft snores were both a balm and a tease. He was glad the poor guy was getting some rest, even if he was somewhat jealous.

He hated how stressed Tracey had been the last several days. He’d been prepared to enjoy Halloween evening with Tracey. They’d planned on handing out candy in Jon’s neighborhood and marveling over the creative costumes. Trick-or-treating died down in his subdivision fairly early—most of the children were very young grandchildren of older neighbors—then they’d go to Tracey’s for relaxing and unpacking.

Instead, the night’s horror had been a thorough verbal reaming by Tracey for not telling him about his and Brian’s sexual history, followed by comforting him about how his mother had reacted to Tracey’s coming out.

Frankly, Jon had deserved the chewing out. He should have seen that coming.

“You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry, and I’m an idiot.”

Tracey fumed. “But why are you an idiot? I don’t want a blanket apology and rug sweeping. I want a specific accounting and a promise this kind of thing won’t happen again.”

Jon’s breath had caught at how beautiful Tracey was in his fury. He hadn’t yet understood the depth of Tracey’s hurt, but it had driven him to explain without hesitation. “I’m sorry for introducing Brian as only my best friend without giving you the full story. That was unfair. I hate that you were blindsided when Tristan told you about us. I never intended for that to happen, nor did I mean to make you feel like the last to know.”

“What did you think would happen?” Tracey put his hands on his hips and glared. “Did you think it just wouldn’t come up?”

Jon put his hands out, palms up. “I didn’t think . It sounds stupid, but that’s the truth. There’s nothing deeper going on here. My history with Brian is so unromantic that it never even occurred to me that you’d be hurt to find out until it was past when I should have told you. I see how shortsighted I was now. Which is why I’m an idiot.”

Tracey huffed like he was suppressing a laugh, but covered it with a cough and scowled. “And it won’t happen again?”

“Hell no, it won’t.” Jon took a chance and stepped forward, approaching Tracey as if he were a dangerous animal that was beginning to calm down.

Tracey let him. “Are there any other people in your past I’ll find out about? Exes or fuck buddies you still talk to?”

Jon shook his head, stopping a few inches away and lowering his voice. “No. And if we run into any out of the blue, you’ll be the first to know. I promise.”

The fight left Tracey’s hard expression, and he looked exhausted and haggard all of a sudden. “Good. You need to thank Brian for being as cool as he is. He’s the one who talked me off the ledge.”

Both the words and Tracey letting his forehead fall to Jon’s chest shocked him into momentary speechlessness. “Uh… what?” Jon wrapped his arms around his boyfriend automatically, despite his confusion. His relief when Tracey melted into him was immense, but that should have been a clue there was more.

“I didn’t have physical therapy. I went to the bar and Brian helped me figure some shit out.” He hugged back, scooting closer like he needed the warmth.

That was the moment Jon realized that all was still not quite right. “That explains his cryptic text message about taking care of you. Come sit.”

He led Tracey to the couch and they sank down. When Tracey tucked himself into his side and burrowed, a pit opened in Jon’s stomach. When Tracey didn’t immediately start talking, Jon rubbed his shoulder and kissed his temple. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

With a deep breath and a nod, Tracey told him about the call to his parents and his mother’s poor response. Hearing what Caroline Smith had said made Jon’s blood boil, but he reined in his reaction so as not to compound Tracey’s hurt.

But how dare she insinuate their relationship wasn’t as real as a heterosexual one?

That was what had him staring into the darkness right now while Tracey slept beside him, however restlessly.

As much as Jon wanted to be supportive and follow Tracey’s lead—after all, he hadn’t met his parents, so Tracey would know best—it was difficult not to want to confront the woman. He was incredibly angry at her for making this earnest, compassionate, whip-smart man feel awful about himself.

After Halloween night, he’d vowed to be there for Tracey in every way he could. It had been a rough couple of days.

Tracey rolled to his side, grumbling incoherently.

Jon watched him, hoping he was just getting comfortable and not having a nightmare.

During waking hours since that terrible evening, Tracey was subdued—polite but flat and passive. He clung to Jon when the opportunity presented, but he seemed almost afraid to ask for hugs or any touch unless Jon initiated it, as though he didn’t want to be a burden.

Jon made a point to show more physical affection, casual touches as they worked to put Tracey’s house together, more full-body cuddles on the couch. He’d stayed over when Tracey asked.

At work, Tracey was the consummate professional, as always, showing true happiness when the last outstanding forensic reports had finally arrived.

Toxicology had come back on Wright. There hadn’t been enough GHB in his system to kill him, only enough to alter his final sexual encounter with whom he thought was just a hookup.

But that wasn’t what had made Tracey smile. That was the DNA report comparing the saliva recovered from the bite mark on Lewis’s upper arm to the touch DNA from Wyatt Powell’s neck.

There was a match. The man who killed Dalton Lewis also killed Wyatt Powell.

Additionally, Wyatt Powell’s assailant had left a fingerprint on the back of Ethan Wright knee.

They had their serial killer, and the picture was becoming clearer.

Very soon, Unit 4 would have a profile on this predator.

The only victim they couldn’t conclusively tie to this perpetrator yet was Malcolm Irwin.

With multiple jurisdictions involved, the FBI would run point on this investigation until the killer was caught. Just like with the Family Man.

Except now, the field of play was the entire eastern half of the country. The FBI was the only option, and that meant the BAU had to be the tip of the spear. The last case like this had left his team bruised and battered. Jon hoped this time would be different. It helped they were on home turf. So far.

At least this case, despite having three confirmed and four possible victims, was much less public, and therefore much less panic-inducing, than the Family Man.

The biggest snag so far was getting the information from the Smoldr people.

Jon had been tossing around ideas on how to make the company understand what was at stake when they’d gone to bed. That was probably another reason he couldn’t sleep.

“No peace.” Tracey’s eerie croak was haunting in the quiet room.

Shit, he’s having a nightmare.

Jon barnacled himself to Tracey’s back and did his best to cradle his whole body without disturbing him.

“You’re safe.” He whispered into Tracey’s ear, using the same sort of soothing monotone Perry had recorded on those meditation playlists Tracey used. “You’re with me. He can’t hurt you. Finch is dead. Finch is gone. You’re home and in bed. I’m here and I’m not letting anything get to you.”

He repeated those phrases, feeling Tracey’s tension drain away as he relaxed into the embrace.

His breathing slowed and evened out, but it never deepened, and eventually, he patted Jon’s forearm to be released.

“I thought you were still asleep.”

Scooting away just enough to lie on his back, Tracey looked at him in the dark. “It was a nice try, but no. I woke up when you hugged me. Thanks though.”

Jon trailed the tip of a finger along the curve of his cheek.

“Stressed?”

“Trying not to be, but yeah. It’d be nice if we could catch this phantom.”

Jon winced. “Yeah, that would help.”

Their arms brushed. Tracey slid their hands together and entwined their fingers. “I hate to say it, but I understand it more than I want to now.”

“Understand what?”

“The urge to be shamed.”

“How so?” Jon kept his tone soft and neutral. Sometimes these secrets spilled better in the dark without eye contact.

Tracey’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “My mom’s voice was so cold, Jon. To hear that when all my life, she’s only ever been loving…. God, even when I’ve disappointed her, she’s never sounded like that . It was like being slapped. But you know what? I’d rather she insult me than never speak to me again. I keep thinking about what happens if she cuts me off. What if those are the last words my mom ever says to me?”

The barest of streetlight broke around the curtain edges, just enough that Tracey’s eyes shone. Jon could barely bear the pain in his hoarse words.

“If that happens, you have me. You have Brian and Tristan. You have Gray. You have people in your corner. Perry and Sarena. I know they’re coworkers, but we’re all friends, too.” Jon inched closer and lay his head on Tracey’s shoulder, bringing their joined hands to his lips to kiss fingers and knuckles. “I’m not abandoning you. I don’t think your dad will either. And if you want my honest opinion, I don’t think your mom will really turn her back.”

Tracey took a hitching breath. “I don’t know if I can lose her, Jon. I know I should block her if she doesn’t accept me, but I don’t know if I can.”

“Shh.” Another kiss to his knuckles. “That hasn’t happened. You don’t know that it will. Let’s not borrow trouble.”

“And what if she’s cruel to you? I can’t allow that. I won’t.”

Tracey’s chest rose and stopped as he held in a sob. Jon raised his head and watched a trail of wet reflect dim light down his temple. Up on his elbow, he turned Tracey’s face toward him with a finger under his chin.

“Baby, listen to me. Give your mom some time and credit before you imagine the worst. Okay?” When Tracey nodded, he kissed him softly, briefly, just enough to make him release that held breath. “But let’s talk about what happens if your mom is rude to me, just to ease your mind.” He held up one finger. “One, I’m an adult, and I can handle most people, so you don’t have to protect me from your mom, okay? Stop pressuring yourself. Whatever happens, we handle it together.” Tracey nodded. “Two, I’ve sat across from some of the worst murderers in history. Do you really think your mother has anything on them for cruelty? Answer me honestly. Do you really think I can’t hold my own?”

Tracey’s eyes snapped to his and widened in the dark. He seemed so shocked that Jon had to smile to show he was kidding. Mostly.

“I promise not to use interrogation tactics on your mother. But—and I mean this completely and sincerely—Caroline Smith is not going to intimidate me. Of course, I want to get along with her. If that doesn’t happen, it will not be on my end, nor will it impact how I feel about you. I also won’t let it change what I think of your dad. I can recognize your parents as individual people. However this all shakes out, we’ll manage.” He paused, lightening his tone and going for the obvious joke. “I’ll only break out the prison interview voice if she makes me. Okay?”

Almost automatically, Tracey nodded. Then he pulled Jon on top of him and buried his face in Jon’s neck. His shoulders shook, and Jon laughed with him until he realized Tracey wasn’t laughing. He was finally, finally releasing the sobs he’d been holding in for days.

“Oh, babe.” Jon hauled them into a sitting position and cradled his heartbroken mess of a boyfriend close.

Tightness squeezed his chest while he held Tracey through the tempest of the first real, intense family shakeup he’d ever had. Jon, above all people, could understand what was at stake, and he wished like hell he could solve this problem. It wasn’t something he could fix. He could only do what he already was—be there when Tracey needed him. Listen. Be a shoulder to lean on and cry on and wipe away the tears. Maybe crack a well-timed (and actually funny) joke if the situation called for it. Remind Tracey that between the two of them, nothing changed.

He'd also have to find a way not to hold this against Tracey’s mom when they finally did meet.

“I hate this for you, sweetheart.”

Tracey was beginning to subside when Jon’s phone rang, vibrating on the side table and lighting the ceiling above his half of the bed.

Seconds later, Tracey’s followed suit.

“That’s not good.” Tracey’s nose was clearly clogged. “Can you get yours and I’ll let mine go to voice mail? You can tell them you’ll wake me. They think I’m still staying with you.” He was already climbing off Jon’s lap to enter the bathroom.

“SSA Anderson.”

It was someone from the Bureau’s switchboard. “Special Agent Anderson, a Detective William Holland with Arlington PD has requested you, SA Vaughn, SA Mercado, and SA Smith at a crime scene as soon as possible, sir.”

Detective Holland. Jon knew that name. Recognition hit, and his stomach dropped. “Did he say what’s going on?”

“He thinks Ethan Wright’s killer has struck again.”

A similar crime scene, another no-tell motel.

Jon did his best not to hover around Tracey as they oversaw the evidence collection. At least the wee hours covered for his red-rimmed eyes, giving plausibility to his mumbled, “I’m just tired,” when Sarena asked if he was all right.

“It’s Friday.” She patted his arm sympathetically. “It’s been a minute since you’ve had a day off, so maybe take one this weekend.”

She made purposeful eye contact with Jon as she said it, and he gave a subtle nod. Message received.

Detective Holland had been happy to defer to them on the collection of evidence at the scene. The medical examiner’s assistant nodded grimly when Sarena went over what particular areas of interest there could be when examining the body during autopsy and asked for blood and urine samples immediately.

Perry jumped on interviewing motel employees. He learned how little anyone knew pretty fast. This motel, like the Pentagon Motor Inn, attracted much of its clientele thanks to its cheap rates and anonymity. Maybe a fraction of its guests were Reagan National Airport travelers willing to brave seedier accommodations for a smaller price tag.

The motel staff were cooperative enough to give the impression they didn’t deal with finding bodies every other day, but they were also not so bothered they were upset. They mostly seemed eager to return to their regular duties as soon as possible and forget someone had died under their roof.

“They do accept cash for rooms from people they know as regulars, and our victim was a regular.” Perry returned to Jon’s side as the body was being zipped into the body bag and transferred to the gurney for transport.

“So the victim has been positively identified?”

Detective Holland answered. “Preliminary identification is Beckett Taft. Twenty-three, according to his license. We’ve looked for next-of-kin, but he has no family in the area, and we’re having trouble locating the ones out of state. Seems like the kid had very few people in his corner. I did get an emergency contact name from an old Georgetown University Hospital admission, a Kit Phillips. He’s on the way to the station.”

“Do we know how he’s involved with the victim?”

Holland shook his head. “Not yet. He didn’t seem that interested in talking to us about Beckett until I said we were looking for information on how to reach his family. Then he got very interested and warned me away from contacting anyone from Beckett’s ‘family of origin,’ he called them. Not sure what that’s about.”

Jon’s insides twisted. He’d been around the block enough to know such phrasing meant Taft had cut contact with his biological family. “When is he meeting you?”

Holland checked his watch. Jon was surprised to see an analog dial rather than a smart device, and he took a moment to assess him. He was a classically handsome man, mid-forties, keen expression under a full head of graying hair, not too many deep lines but enough of a furrow between his brows for Jon to know he was a thinker. His suit was crisp despite their early start, and fit the man well. It was clear he knew a decent tailor and didn’t settle for an off-the-rack suit that matched his dimensions.

Holland didn’t have that disheveled and overworked air so many detectives seemed to develop after enough years on the job, so maybe he was new to homicide? But then he conducted himself like a veteran. Could mean he was able to afford dressing better because he had another income source. Jon checked for a ring and found nothing. Family money? Wealthy partner he wasn’t married to? Not many romantic relationships survived the working hours of a detective.

Jon knew that well.

“Phillips is coming in first thing, but only after I promised I wouldn’t make him late for his job, which starts at nine. So I’ve got to move if I want his help. You want one of your people to come with?”

Jon glanced at Tracey. He was holding up fine, speaking to one of the crime scene technicians. But Jon could see the subtle struggle, his drooped posture, the lack of hand gestures when he was normally effusive. Not to mention, he kept shifting as though his leg bothered him.

Being on his feet more lately had strained Tracey’s injured leg, and then he’d gone and overworked it. They’d been at this scene for hours already. Sitting in an interview might help if he could also get a cup of coffee down Tracey’s throat.

“I’ll grab my guy and we’ll follow you. We may need to talk you out of two tall coffees when we get there, though.” Jon didn’t have to fake a yawn to punctuate his point. He hadn’t slept at all.

Holland chuckled. “Oh, there’s a whole pot with my name on it, but I suppose I can share with you and your partner.”

He didn’t bother correcting Holland that their team didn’t have partners per se. He just nodded, updated the others on the plan, and beckoned Tracey to his car.

“There’s a catnap and caffeine in your future.”

“Thank God.” Tracey waited until the doors to the car were shut before he said, “I could kiss you.”

Jon pulled out of his space and followed Holland’s unmarked cruiser with a small smile. “Just rest your eyes.”

Before they’d even merged onto northbound 395 toward the Arlington Police station, Tracey was snoozing against the passenger door.

The ride was only fifteen minutes—five longer than it should have been thanks to a car on the freeway partially blocking the right lane with its hazards blinking and a harried man on his phone. If Jon could have extended the ride to give Tracey more time, he would have.

Holland’s taillights led them into the parking garage across from the Arlington Justice Center where the Arlington PD station was located. Jon took a ticket at the automated machine, then parked his Civic as close as he could to the line of identical police cars, past which Holland’s had disappeared. He killed his engine and shook Tracey gently.

“Game time. Look alive.”

Tracey, to his credit, scrubbed a hand over his face and perked right up. As they got out of the car, Holland approached from down the row and they joined him on the walk to street level.

“I can’t guarantee the coffee will be great, but there’s a bakery right over there if you want something better.” He pointed to a busy café where businesspeople bustled in and out, its door never having time to close fully. “But this Kit guy wasn’t thrilled about spending a lot of time here. If they’re too busy, I may need to start without you.”

Jon appreciated the nicety, but it wasn’t necessary. “Honestly, I’d take an IV drip at this point. I don’t care what it tastes like. Let’s dig into Beckett Taft’s life and figure out what’s what.”

Tracey grunted in agreement.

“Your ulcers.” Holland led them across the street to the Justice Center and they entered the building. People from all walks of life hurried about their business, and it was a busy place. To get anywhere beyond the lobby, however, everyone was funneled through metal detectors.

Holland led them alongside a line for one of the scanners. The guard waved him through, recognizing him.

“Henry, these gentlemen are with the FBI.”

They showed their badges for the security guard to scrutinize, but he didn’t take too long and they were quickly through—bypassing the scanners because of their service weapons—and working through the warren of hallways and floors to Arlington PD.

Holland stopped to speak to the officer manning the front desk, who indicated one of the people waiting in the chairs just inside the doors.

All three of them turned to see a young man stand, presumably at the sound of his name. Another man stood with him. Both wore stony expressions.

“Kit Phillips?” Holland stepped toward them.

“Yes.”

“Follow me, please.” Both men started after Holland, who paused. “Just you, if you don’t mind.”

The unknown man smiled thinly. “We mind. Either I go with him, or we leave.”

Holland raised his brows, facing them head on and crossing his arms. “And you are?”

“Dean Fletcher. I’m Kit’s partner.”

“Did you know Beckett Taft?”

Fletcher’s nostrils flared. “Unfortunately.”

Phillips elbowed him in the ribs and tried to seem less combative. “Please, um, officer?”

“Detective.”

Phillips’s eyes flicked nervously in Jon’s and Tracey’s direction, and Jon didn’t bother to introduce them, letting their presence remain unsettling.

It worked, and Phillips swallowed nervously. “I don’t know what this is about, but I have a rocky history with Beckett. Dean’s only here to make sure I don’t get pulled into more of Beckett’s, um….” Kit trailed off, as if he didn’t know what to say that wasn’t unflattering.

“Vacuum of endless suffering.” Dean chimed in.

Kit elbowed his partner again. “Please. If we can go somewhere private, I’ll explain. But I don’t want to talk to you without him.” He threaded his fingers through Dean’s to show he wasn’t letting go, the tilt of his chin set in a stubborn line.

Holland hesitated, glanced at Jon, then heaved a put-upon sigh. “Fine. But Dean, was it?” The man nodded. “If you’re disruptive, you’ll wait outside and Kit will be late for work.”

Both Dean and Kit agreed like solemn schoolboys, and Holland led the procession down the hallway. “We’ll use this room.” He unlocked a door and flipped on the light, revealing a room with a small couch, a couple of single chairs, and a low table in the center holding a box of tissues and a single, weather-beaten copy of Good Housekeeping . It wasn’t an interrogation room; the police typically used rooms like these for death notifications and case updates for family members in more comfortable surroundings.

“Please, sit.” Holland gestured to the love seat. “Can I get you gentlemen something to drink? I promised these two some coffee, so I have that, or bottled water. I can get you a soda or juice from the vending machine.”

They declined.

Holland gestured for Jon and Tracey to follow him, and he led them to a break room where a small coffee station was set up.

“Help yourselves. It’s not Starbucks, but it’s hot and caffeinated.” Holland filled a travel mug from the cupboard and waited while they got paper cups and doctored the coffee to their liking.

When they returned to the hospitality room, Tracey picked an armchair, and Jon chose to remain standing near the door. Holland sat in the armchair across from the couple.

Kit licked his lips and grabbed Dean’s hand again, as if the suspense made his skin crawl. “What’s happening with Beckett?”

“First, I’m Detective William Holland. We spoke on the phone. These gentlemen are from the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. Special Agents Jon Anderson and Tracey Smith.” He gestured at them respectively.

“FBI?” Kit’s eyes widened.

Holland gentled his voice. “I’m sorry to tell you this. Beckett was found dead this morning.” He paused.

Jon watched their reaction as the information sank in.

Kit leaned into Dean and closed his eyes. Dean, to his credit, kept quiet, holding his partner, offering support.

Holland continued. “We’ve been trying to find family to notify of his passing, but that's proving more difficult than expected. You were listed as Beckett’s emergency contact at the hospital. Then you instructed us not to inform his family. Why is that?”

“Please don’t bother trying to contact those people. They were estranged with good reason. Not only won’t they help you, they’ll make things worse. I can give you the name of the attorney Beckett went to for his name change. Maybe he can tell you if there’s a will or instructions for… I guess, a funeral or whatever.” Kit’s lips trembled, and he bit them.

“That’d be very helpful. I’d like to understand why Beckett was estranged from his family.”

Dean snorted and Holland glared. He shut his mouth so fast, his teeth clacked.

“Beckett is… was gay. His parents put him in conversion therapy. It was the beginning of the end of their relationship.”

Holland stayed quiet, letting the silence’s weight prompt Kit to fill it. Witnesses talked more freely when they were left to tell the story their way. However, this witness seemed to be aware of that trick, because he stared at Holland, waiting for the next question.

To his credit, Holland didn’t let any impatience show. “Is that when Beckett came to D.C.?”

“I don’t really know the exact timeline. We didn’t meet until well after he was already here.”

“And how did you meet?”

Kit focused on his lap, dragging Dean’s hand into view and playing with their joined fingers in a way that made Jon think he was a cuticle picker but wouldn’t while he held his partner’s hand. When he spoke, his volume was so low, it was difficult to hear. “In rehab. We were nineteen and trying to kick drug problems. Our stories are… similarly ugly. We related to each other in ways the other residents couldn’t quite grasp.” He lifted his chin, his eyes shiny. “That’s what happens when your family throws you out like trash when you’re not old enough to support yourself. In Beckett’s case, they tortured him first.”

Holland’s next question was gentle. “Were you romantically involved?”

“Not at first. And we haven’t been for over a year.”

“May I ask why?”

Beside him, Dean bristled, but he remained silent. Kit looked at him and patted his hand. “Beckett and I weren’t good for each other. We trauma bonded. Our counsellors at rehab warned us not to rely too heavily on each other. If one relapses, it can jeopardize the other’s sobriety. But we thought with separate sponsors, we would be okay.” He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “It wasn’t okay.”

Tracey scooted to the edge of his chair, his elbows on his knees and hands clasped in front of him, the picture of compassion. “You said Beckett’s family sent him to conversion therapy.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know which one?”

“No, sorry.”

“Why did they disown him?”

Kit’s smile was sad. “Beckett didn’t convert to their sick idea of righteousness and heterosexuality. He refused to bow to their demands and say he wasn’t gay. So they cast him out when he was seventeen.” His gaze turned inward, as though a memory played in front of him, replacing the room. “He was from Pennsylvania. Winters there are cold, and you do what you have to do to survive when you have nowhere to sleep. Eventually, he came to D.C. for the promise of higher-end tricks. After a while, you need more than the cold to numb the bad memories and turn the tricks. He did the drugs to block out the pain.”

Dean pressed a kiss to his temple. Kit shuddered and sank into the embrace, then shook himself like awakening from a bad dream.

“Anyway, that’s what landed him in rehab. After we got out, things were good for a few months. He changed his name and took back his power, and for a while, he was focused on his future instead of his past.

“But Beckett had issues I wasn’t equipped to handle, and we were too co-dependent to be healthy together. He spiraled, and I could see where it was headed. If I didn’t get out, he’d take me down with him.

“When I broke up with him, I told his sponsor, and then I blocked him. I had to. He was sick and I couldn’t let him infect me, too.”

“You don’t have to feel guilty. You did nothing wrong.” Dean glared at Holland, as if daring him to toss him out for interjecting, but Holland wouldn’t interrupt Kit’s story now. He was on a roll.

Kit addressed the room as a whole. “I know it’s not my fault, but it was hard to believe that, especially because Beckett had such deep abandonment issues. In rehab, we learn how crucial it is to surround ourselves with people who’ll support our sobriety. If Beckett couldn’t stay sober, I couldn’t have him in my life. I struggled with walking away from him, but I’ve made peace with it.” Kit produced a watery smile for Dean. “I’m in a better place now.”

Holland shifted his attention to Dean. “Mr. Fletcher, how did you know Beckett?”

Now, Dean looked uncomfortable. “I met Kit a couple of months after he and Beckett broke up. Kit had moved into the apartment across from mine after their split. At first we just said hello, but then we started talking, and I felt something there. I asked him out and he said yes.

“But the whole time, Beckett kept showing up, usually high. He’d beg Kit for the time of day, and every time, Kit would shut him down, tell him to get help first. Some of those encounters were pretty loud because Beckett didn’t take kindly to Kit demanding to be left alone unless he stopped using.” He swallowed, dropping his gaze. “A couple of those times, Beckett got physical, so I stepped in and got him to leave without having to call the police.” He glanced at his partner. “If it was my decision, I’d have called, but Kit didn’t want me to.”

“What did you do?”

Dean shrugged. “My hands were kind of tied. Kit and I were a new thing, but I didn’t want him to get hurt. I was worried for his safety, but I could also see Beckett needed help, not the cops. Kit wouldn’t let me involve the police so Beckett didn’t get arrested again. He had a record, and even I understood what that meant. There wasn’t anyone else he would listen to. I did the only thing I could think of.”

“Which was?” Holland raised a brow, clearly catching onto Dean’s stalling.

“I threatened him if he didn’t leave Kit alone.”

Tracey cocked his head. “‘Threatened’ how?”

Dean pursed his lips, uncomfortable. Kit rubbed his knee, silently encouraging him to answer. It wasn’t a secret between them.

“Not with violence. I’m not that sort of person. Besides, Beckett didn’t care if he got hurt. But he did care if he never saw Kit again. I kinda knew his backstory, so I told him if he didn’t stop harassing us, I’d help Kit move again. Only this time, we’d keep the address a secret. Beckett would be truly alone and he’d have to find someone else to drag into the gutter with him.”

Tracey flicked a glance at Jon and sat back. Holland, too, straightened in his chair and schooled his expression.

Jon saw the same thing in Holland’s face he’d seen in Tracey’s—let Dean hang himself.

The silence stretched, the discomfort growing in the room until Dean couldn’t handle it anymore.

“I mean, it wasn’t like I said I’d kill the guy. I just wanted him to leave Kit alone. I could see what it was doing to him. Every time Beckett came around, Kit got closer to relapsing. Was I proud of it? No. But he wouldn’t get help, and I’ll be damned if I’d let him drag Kit back into that hell.” Dean hung his head. “He was turning tricks, chemsex, and this time, he even said he was selling. I couldn’t risk Kit giving in and getting drugs from him.”

Beside him, Kit dropped his chin to his chest. Tracey nudged the box of tissues toward him, and he took one to blow his nose. When he wadded up the tissue, a tear slipped free and splattered the back of his hand. He wiped at it absently, saying nothing.

Dean, all of his previous bravado gone, continued. “If I knew how to make Beckett get help, I would have. But that’s the hard part with an addict—they have to help themselves.”

“What happened after you threatened him?” Tracey was completely neutral, keeping the spell in the air.

“He stopped coming by.” Dean chanced a peek at Kit. “I know he kept texting, staying in touch, but the begging to be with Kit seemed to stop. At least as far as I know.”

“Mr. Phillips? Is that true?”

“Yeah, mostly.” He leaned into Dean’s side, a silent forgiveness. “He backed off. Slowly stopped communicating. I figured he was tired of being rejected. There’s only so much someone can take. Until one day, I realized I hadn’t heard from him in a week. Then a month. Then not at all.” Kit fidgeted with his tissue. “I still see his sponsor at meetings, and for a while, he would tell me Beckett was at least alive. Then even he didn’t know anymore. I stopped asking. It hurt too much. I had to move on. That’s where I was until I got the call from you today.”

Jon stepped forward. “So you haven’t had contact with Beckett in how long?”

Kit jumped as if he’d forgotten Jon was there. “Months now. I can’t even tell you how long.”

“So you wouldn’t be able to help us piece together his last few days?”

“Sorry, no.” Kit shook his head.

“What about knowing his acquaintances or associates?”

“I wouldn’t know that either. On purpose, sir. I don’t move in those circles anymore. I’ll give you the names and numbers for his attorney and sponsor, but that’s the best I can do. The rest, I deliberately don’t know.”

“Where were you both last night?” Holland took out a small notebook and pen, poised to write.

Dean held up his unoccupied hand. “Whoa. Are we suspects?”

Holland’s eyes bored into him. “You threatened the victim. Do you think you shouldn’t be?”

“We literally haven’t seen Beckett for months.” Kit’s protest held a combination of fear and desperation. “How can you think we had anything to do with this?”

“We don’t.” Jon patted the air in front of him, giving Holland a pointed glance. “The detective is simply confirming your whereabouts to eliminate you as part of the preliminary investigation into Beckett Taft’s murder. The FBI is involved because there’s a chance his death is related to cases in other jurisdictions.”

Dean’s mouth fell open and Kit blanched, then went green at the edges.

“It wasn’t an overdose?” Dean’s shock subsided first.

“No, Mr. Fletcher. We have a strong suspicion Beckett spent his last few hours in the company of a serial killer.” Tracey’s neutral mask slipped, and he appeared almost angry. “So if you don’t mind giving us the information you do know, we’d like to begin following up on the leads that will actually help Beckett, as much as he can be helped now, anyway.” Tracey stood. “Excuse me.” With that, he swept from the room.

Jon pushed himself from the wall. “Detective Holland, can I see you out in the hallway for a moment?”

“Sure.”

They slipped from the room, and Jon shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to keep an eye on where Tracey may have gone. It’s not like he knew the building, so about the only place he could go would be back to the car or the break room.

“What’s up?”

Jon focused on the detective. “I’m sure you know this, but there’s no point in treating either of those men like suspects. Yes, get their alibis, just to dot the I’s and cross the T’s, but it’s not how to catch the perpetrator killing these men.”

Holland tried to blank his expression, but Jon saw the slightest hardening of his eyes. “I know how to do my job, Special Agent.”

“I have no doubt. Have you worked a serial killer case before?”

At that, Holland deflated marginally. “Not as such, no.”

“I get it, most victims are killed by someone they know, so it makes sense to start with their closest family and friends and work outward. That’s not how we’ll catch this guy. The victim only knew this killer briefly. Long enough for a hookup. He may not have even known the killer’s name. Let me be clear, I’m not questioning your prowess as a detective. I just don’t want you wasting your time suspecting Dean Fletcher or Kit Phillips because they wouldn’t have known or had reason to kill Wyatt Powell in Atlanta, or Dalton Lewis and Malcolm Irwin in Chicago. I highly doubt they knew Ethan Wright. Do you get what I’m saying?”

Holland leaned on the wall and pinched the bridge of his nose. “God. Yeah, and I feel like an idiot. We all know this. That arrogant SOB just pissed me off from the moment he insisted on being in the room.”

Jon put a hand on Holland’s shoulder, briefly. “I get it. And hey, we got some useful info from Dean, too. But those two weren’t close enough to Beckett to help us recreate his final days. Maybe the sponsor can give us names of Beckett’s other friends. Hopefully the attorney will have an updated address, and we can ask neighbors or a landlord about last movements and known associates.

“What I really want here is access to his phone, particularly his Smoldr app. We’re almost positive that’s how this man is getting to them because all of the victims before Taft have big blank spots in their messages like they were erased when there’s no pattern like that in their histories.”

Holland frowned. “Can’t you just get a search warrant and go to Smoldr?”

“You’d think, but Smoldr won’t give us any data until we can give them a specific username we suspect belongs to our perp. They say giving them the victim’s information is too broad and violates the rights of other users the victim might have also been talking to.” Jon understood it, even if he didn’t like it.

“But that’s how investigating works. You get names, then you eliminate them one by one by speaking to them, getting alibis, and ruling them out.”

“Smoldr’s legal department won’t have it. They will only turn over data once we have a name to use to confirm our suspicions.”

“Can’t they be compelled?”

“We’ve tried in the past. Their legal argument is sound. The last judge who ruled on one of these did so in favor of Smoldr.”

“Ugh.” Holland straightened from the wall. “Okay. So I won’t hold these two any longer. We’re past the time Phillips wanted to leave for work anyway, so I’ll get their information and cut ’em loose. Then I’ll chase down the lawyer and the sponsor. See if Beckett’s phone has your info.”

Jon clapped his upper arm. “That’d be great.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m going to find my partner. Probably went after coffee. Call me or shoot me a text with whatever you find?”

“Will do. Thanks for your help today.”

They shook hands and parted ways, and Jon took off down the hallway, trying to remember how to find the exit. He stopped at a nearby restroom to see if Tracey ducked in there, but it was empty.

Finally emerging from the building into the overcast day, he pulled out his phone. Now that he was out of the old building, he had full reception.

Jon

I’m in desperate need of coffee that won’t burn a hole in my gut. That bakery café is still open. You want a venti latte or something?

Tracey

God yes. The biggest dessert coffee they sell w/ the most espresso shots you can talk them into. If it’s white chocolate or pumpkin flavored, even better.

Jon

Want anything to eat with that?

Tracey

No thx. Just the caffeine sugar bomb.

Jon

Meet you at the car?

Tracey

??

Despite Tracey not wanting food, Jon ordered a couple of breakfast sandwiches, croissants, and the coffees. Returning to the car, he found his partner leaned against the passenger side, peering at his phone.

“They didn’t have a lot of choice, so I got you a mocha latte with two extra shots and as much whipped cream as the to-go cup would allow. Plus extra mocha sauce drizzled on top. She actually put it in a soda cup instead of a coffee cup to fit it all.”

The chirp of the disengaging car alarm echoed through the garage. They climbed in and Jon also passed over the bag of food.

“Pick something if you want. Breakfast stuff.”

“I said I wasn’t hungry.”

“I know. Just if you want. If not, I’ll give it to Sarena and Perry. Although Perry will probably complain that it’s turkey sausage instead of ‘normal’ sausage. It smells good.” He made no mention of Tracey’s little flip-out at the Justice Center as he reprogrammed the GPS to get back to the office. “I, however, need something after that horrible coffee. Can you hand me one of those sandwiches, please?”

He backed out of the space and navigated to the parking attendant. Dammit, he’d forgotten to get his ticket validated. He paid the fee and pulled into traffic. It wasn’t until they were at a stoplight and he was unwrapping his food that Tracey spoke up.

“I’m sorry.”

Jon let the pause while he chewed his first bite hang there, then held up the sandwich. “Are you sure you don’t want the other one? This is really good. Hell, we should come back up here one morning when we have more time to get breakfast.”

“Did you hear me?”

The light turned and Jon accelerated alongside other cars. He took another bite. “Mm-hmm.”

Tracey sighed and sipped his drink. “I know what you’re doing. You want me to explain what happened in there without you making a big deal out of it.”

“It’s not a big deal. You’re tired and dealing with a lot. A jerk of a witness got under your skin. It happens.”

“It doesn’t happen to you.”

At that, Jon actually laughed. “Oh, you sweet summer child.”

Tracey looked offended while also fighting laughter. Instead of taking the bait, he sipped his coffee.

Jon conceded some ground. “I’m not exempt from assholes. I’ve just had more practice at being less obvious. Doesn’t mean telling Dean Fletcher off wouldn’t have felt amazing.” He took another bite as the GPS led him to the highway, where he concentrated on merging before continuing. “It wasn’t that bad, Tracey. You just told them, a little sharply, to give us names and numbers, and then you walked out of the room. Hardly worth lodging an official complaint over it.”

Tracey put his coffee in the cup holder and dug into the bakery bag, pulling out the other breakfast sandwich. He didn’t unwrap it right away, turning it over in his hands. “I should have controlled myself.”

“Why did you get so mad?”

“I guess… I put myself in Beckett’s shoes. His family turned their backs, and he really needed someone. Kit supported him. Then here’s this jerk telling Beckett to fuck off or he’ll take away the one person who’s been there. It rubbed me wrong. Especially after….” He didn’t finish the thought.

Jon swallowed, the last bite suddenly tasting like ash. “After your mom.” He handed Tracey the wrapper to put back in the bag.

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

“I will be. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”

Traffic was light, given that it was mid-morning, but he still had to pay attention to the road. “Can I offer one piece of advice? Something I learned when I related too closely to one aspect or another on a case.”

“Sure.” Tracey finally unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite.

“When you’re sucked too far in, feeling too close, find differences. In this case, these victims are having chemsex. Have you done anything like that?”

“No.”

“Have you ever hooked up with anyone who wanted sex while high?”

“No.” He picked at the biscuit on his sandwich and popped the crumb in his mouth. “I don’t even like one-night stands. I had one when I first got to college and it made me feel like shit. Never did it again. No one I’ve ever dated was into drugs.”

“Okay. Another difference is these are all men sleeping with men. You’ve said I’m your first male partner.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

Jon had merged onto the highway, and they were just another car in a sea of cars. He glanced over and Tracey seemed more relaxed. He was actively eating now.

“Really, the only commonality between you and these men is some level of same-sex attraction. Just because your mother needs time to wrap her head around you dating me doesn’t mean she’s anything like the families of these victims. And even if she was, you’re not under her influence. She can’t put you on the streets or send you to a conversion camp.” Tracey nodded. “The similarities are minimal. So don’t take on their pain.”

“You’re right.” He wadded the empty wrapper in his fist and tossed it into the bag at his feet. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

After a few moments of silence, Jon changed the subject. “When we get back to the office, we’ll check in with Detective Holland. He was running Taft’s known associates, so we’ll see if we can find anything on his social media. Maybe he has other people who might know who his final hookup was.”