“I’m not suggesting otherwise. We’re still here, aren’t we? Doing our job.”
“Is that all this is? A job?” Carter took two steps forward, bringing them nose to nose. This close, Lincoln could feel his partner’s ragged breaths, could see the equally ragged emotions swirling in his tired green eyes. “Did I lie to Larry when I told him we weren’t just a cover?”
Lincoln froze, on the cusp of the truth, fighting the dizziness of the same tilt-a-whirl he’d been slung around since arriving in Apex. Since Carter Warren introduced him as his husband. Carter wanted this to be real too. Of course he did. The kitchen night before last, the kisses since, indicated as much, as did all those moments Lincoln glimpsed the tender eagerness beneath Carter’s cocky grin. Lincoln wanted to tell him the truth, but that truth, at least for him, didn’t come without some qualifications, without cautions, and with both of them riding twin blades of exhaustion and anger, would Lincoln’s words destroy everything? He couldn’t risk that, couldn’t risk their possible future or the lives of Barry and Trudy. “Look, we both need some rest. We can take a few hours, a time-out.”
Carter lifted a hand and cradled Lincoln’s cheek. His fingers shook, almost as much as his voice. “Eight years I’ve waited for a shot with you. A lifetime I’ve waited for a place where I might fit in. I like it here, L, and I like you.” He dropped his hand, and his eyes hardened, a wall going up and blocking Lincoln out, and fucking hell if that didn’t hurt far more than it should. “Forgive me for taking a shot at both.”
He turned for the door and Lincoln lunged, grabbing his wrist. “Carter, wait! I didn’t mean—” Carter shook off his hold and Lincoln stepped back, holding up his hands. “We need to talk about this but not when we’re both so on edge.” Carter looked unconvinced. Lincoln kept talking. “I’ll go to the lab and work there for a bit. You stay here and look through the photos. See if anything jumps out at you.”
“Why would I do that? I don’t understand what I’m looking at here.”
“I didn’t?—”
“What you need is here, Agent Monroe. I’ll meet you at the lab at four for our check-in with Beverley and Kirk.”
He stormed out and Lincoln stared after him, unmoving, his wind and legs knocked out by two words.
Agent Monroe.
Not Professor, not L, not babe. And that hurt worst of all. Brought an ache to Lincoln’s chest, a sting behind his eyes, and a shortening of his breath into panicked huffs. All signs that pointed to the truth. A truth that Lincoln should have spoken.
That Carter hadn’t been wrong to tell Larry this wasn’t just a cover.
Four o’clock came and went with no sign of Carter. Lincoln pushed the meeting with Beverley and Ollie back an hour and texted Carter to meet him at the lab. As five o’clock approached, Lincoln paced the rows between lab benches. Still no sign of Carter. It didn’t look like he’d even been here. He checked the where-are-you text messages he’d spammed Carter with. Delivered but not yet Read.
No matter what Lincoln thought of Carter, or what Carter mistakenly thought Lincoln thought of him, Lincoln did not think his partner lacked competence or professional discipline. Hell, it had been Lincoln who had been late at every turn on this case.
Was he late now?
Late to come around to Larry as the prime suspect? Carter’s field instincts had been on point every other instance.
Late to realize this absence wasn’t just Carter sulking or blowing off steam? Because that was not Carter.
Fuck. He opened the text messages again. Still no Read. And he knew his texts were coming and going just fine. He’d texted back and forth with Elena a half hour ago.
Elena. W-W-E-D? But this wasn’t a technical malfunction. He needed to think like a field agent. Like Carter.
W-W-C-D. What would Carter do?
Lincoln’s first thought was to ask Ollie and Beverley for help, ask them to call in the cavalry. But the cavalry Lincoln needed was already here, agents and law enforcement who knew the area better than DC feds. Lincoln shrugged on his coat, grabbed his bag, and started for the stairs, scrolling through his contacts as he went.
O’Shea answered on the first ring. “Agent Monroe, what’s going on?”
“We may have a situation. Can you and Jo meet me at my and Carter’s house?” He relayed the address of the rental, texted Ollie and Beverley that they would need to reschedule, then barreled out the back door of the lab building.
He navigated the Wrangler through campus and town in less than ten minutes and pulled into the driveway in fifteen. Next to Carter’s Forester. Relief slammed into him, and hot on its heels, anger. Was Carter here? Safe and sound . . . and sulking?
Or maybe Carter had fallen asleep? That Lincoln could understand. He’d been so on edge earlier, exhaustion and dead ends a cocktail that didn’t mix well, Carter’s temper flaring in a way that surprised Lincoln. And saddened him. And made a certain amount of sense, given Carter’s childhood. Lincoln should have handled things better too.
Though as Lincoln entered through the front door and tripped over Carter’s shoes, he wasn’t feeling so magnanimous.
“Carter!” he shouted. “Where the fuck are you?”
Silence replied.
“Wake up or come out from wherever you’re pouting!”
Not exactly the definition of handling things better, but the string of hallway detritus that kept tripping Lincoln was not begetting kindness. Irritation mounting, Lincoln almost committed a fatal forensic error, catching himself at the last second over the threshold of the kitchen, where, with one look, Lincoln realized something had gone terribly wrong. Two coffee mugs were on the table, as if Carter had been having a chat with someone there. A chat that took a turn for the worse, and the coffeepot had shattered on the floor. In the ensuing fight that played in Lincoln’s imagination, someone—Carter?—had smeared blood on the end of the kitchen island. His head? A knife wound? Lincoln spun back toward the foyer, reassessing the items he’d waded through on his way in. Carter’s shoes, coat, and gloves he hadn’t had a chance to pick up. Someone had dragged him out of here without any of that stuff on. Into the cold. He looked back at the island. Injured.
