Marist pursed her lips. In the seat next to her, Nichols shifted.
Traynor shook his head again. “The Dead Man is the best weapon we have ever had against the empaths. And Evan’s devotion to the job is not up for debate.”
Marist let her gaze drift to Nichols and found him looking at her. She gave the tiniest shrug. If Traynor was thinking about Grayson’s past, he wasn’t going to listen to any concerns about the priorities of the present, whether they were brought by Stone Solutions or Polaris.
And at the end of the day, Agent Grayson was still the Dead Man. Still absolutely unique and absolutely necessary.
She smiled at Traynor. “Of course, Holt,” she said. “There’s no cause whatsoever for debate.” She turned to Nichols. “I’ll have my assistant arrange your flight to Prince Rupert for the morning.”
“No need.” Nichols’ gaze was on Traynor now. “For the moment, I’ll be staying in Seattle.”
Liam’s old bed was a lot more comfortable than Jamey’s couch—some kind of fancy pillow-top-foam-gel-who-the-hell-knows thing that would have put most people right to sleep. Unlike Jamey’s too-quiet house, the bar on the ground floor of Reece’s new building served up constant noise, Friday night revelers whooping as they left, cars honking as they picked up passengers.
A few months ago, Reece might have welcomed all of it, but tonight his stomach and chest hurt from anxiety, and thoughts crowded his mind so loudly he couldn’t find peace.
They don’t know they’re in danger.
That you can hear their lies.
They don’t know what you did to Cedrick Stone.
He forcefully rolled over onto his side. He’d pushed the folding screen out of the way so he could see the lights he’d left on under the kitchen cabinets, which gave the studio a soft glow. At least Jamey’s house had had Jamey in it. Now, he was alone, no potential for the phone to ring with a new gig for the SPD, and no one to celebrate Friday night with. Not that it mattered what day of the week it was; he had no friends or job expecting him anywhere, not tonight or tomorrow or Monday. It was just him, the only empath in Seattle now, with more empty days ahead.
And that was how it needed to be. He knew the truth about himself now; that no matter how hard he tried to cling to his pacifism, there was another side to him. And no one else should be put at risk.
His gaze went from the kitchen to the couch, then up to the television mounted on the wall.
Can’t even handle a toy gun anymore.
Because you almost shot Evan.
He abruptly sat up, so hard the bed frame creaked. Insomnia won this round; he wasn’t going to fall asleep anytime soon if his thoughts had gonethere.
He got out of bed. There was a lamp only a couple feet away, on the living area’s side table, and Reece flipped it on, then reached for the hoodie that was draped over the couch’s arm. He slipped it over his shoulders and zipped it up to his chin, like the soft fleece inside could somehow surround his thoughts too, a constant reminder against his skin that he hadn’t pulled that trigger, that Grayson was alive.
Rain had started up at some point, soft taps against the window edged with a louder staccato from the flecks of sleet, which left translucent specks of white on the black glass. He grabbed his phone from where he’d left it on the coffee table and flopped onto the couch, pulling his legs up under him as he opened his most recent text chain with Grayson.
Reece: Well, if zombies aren’t your type, who is?
Grayson: Backseat drivers.
Reece’s lips grudgingly twitched. “Dick,” he said out loud, but it sounded a little bit like an endearment. It helped, pretending he heard Grayson in his head when he read his texts, the memory of that low drawl loosening some of the tightness gripping his chest.
He leaned back into the cushions, the sleeves of the Texas hoodie sliding down his hands as he scrolled through their messages. Reece really didn’t have any business asking about the Dead Man’s type, but it sounded like Grayson wasn’t dating at all. Maybe he couldn’t, because he was the Dead Man and supposed to be all spooky and classified. But how would that be fair? Graysonwasn’tdead. He deserved to be able to try to meet someone if he wanted to, same as anyone else.
Whoever it was Grayson would want to meet. Normally Reece could guess someone else’s tastes in partners, but the Dead Man was still an enigma in too many ways. Maybe he went for people who were tall and hot like him. Stoic and rational. Poised. Polite. Able to watch an R-rated movie. After all, it wasn’t like anyone hadshort neurotic pacifiston their dance card.
Reece scrolled further back through their texts.
Reece: I mean, you do date or whatever, right?
Grayson: Think that depends on what you mean by “whatever.”
Well, Reece hadn’t meantline dance. But it didn’t matter if Grayson was celibate or railing half the East Coast; the Dead Man’s sex life was also none of his business. Even if Grayson did have sex, and even if his type miraculously included anxiety-addled empaths, they couldn’t touch each other. Grayson wouldn’twantto touch Reece anyway.
Reece would just be glad they were friends; he wasn’t sure how he’d be surviving these days without Grayson in his pocket.
He raised his hand to send a message, then lowered it. If Grayson was on the East Coast—and Reece was ninety-nine percent sure he’d gotten that guess right—then it was going on four a.m. He had the same sensitive hearing as Jamey and a text might wake him up. Reece could wait.
