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Just like that? It was over?
Why? What had he done?
Nothing, according to Kennedy.
It isn’t you. It’s nothing you’ve done or didn’t do.
Which really didn’t help.
What would help? Anger. Anger would help. But could you be legitimately angry at someone for changing their mind about wanting a relationship with you? Sure, people did rage over that—even kill each other over that. But not sane people. Not reasonable, grown-up people.
It was worrying how much this hurt. Way too much for what it was. It felt like a huge weight had landed on him last night, and it had been all he could do to keep upright and moving through the day while that weight got heavier and heavier and heavier.
But he had made it through today. And he would make it through tomorrow, and all the tomorrows that followed, and eventually the casual mention of BAU Chief Sam Kennedy would not trip his heart in his chest or cause him to lean in to listen to other people’s conversations.
He swallowed the last mouthful of water and was trying to decide whether a second whisky would be a bad idea on an empty stomach, when someone knocked on his side door.
He couldn’t help that surge of hope—though he knew it was ridiculous—even before he peered out the side window and spotted…
Wait.
The hell? Was that— That could not be—
Jason yanked the door open, and Chris Shipka, minus his hoodie and camera equipment, gazed nervously back at him.
At Jason’s glare, Shipka faltered, “Uh…hi, Special Agent West.”
“No comment.” Jason moved to close the door.
Shipka jammed his foot in the doorway in a move time-honored by reporters and door-to-door salesmen alike.
“No, wait, man,” he pleaded. “I’m not here to interview you.”
Jason said stonily, “Right. You’re just selling subscriptions to the Valley Voice. How did you find out where I live?”
Shipka’s expression was a mix of apology and pride. “Hello? How much of a reporter would I be if I couldn’t find out where somebody lives?”
Fair enough. Whatever else he was, Shipka did seem to be a pretty diligent reporter.
“Okay,” Jason said. “You found me. Now get lost. This is private property, and you’re trespassing.”
He was not jumpy by nature, but he couldn’t deny that Shipka’s appearance, following on the heels of the card from Kyser, was unsettling.
Shipka kept his foot planted and his hand braced on the red surface of Jason’s door. He was smiling, but it was a pained effort. “Wait a minute. Don’t be so hostile, West. This isn’t— I’m not— I’ve got information for you.”
“What information?”
Shipka recognized Jason’s hesitation and said quickly, “Information you’ll need for your Fletcher-Durrand investigation.”
“Then you need to come down to my office and file a complaint tomorrow—or actually, on Friday when I get back. I’m out of town for the next couple of days.”
Shipka’s eyes narrowed. “No way. I’m not filing a complaint. I’m not reporting a crime. I can’t do that.”
Jason asked, “Why’s that?”
Shipka’s expression twisted into a grimace. His eyes were hazel. More green than brown. His features were blunt, not unattractive. He had a dimple in his chin and a tiny scar over his lip. His hair was brown and curly. He was nice-looking. Not handsome—not the kind of looks that won TV anchor slots—but appealing.
“Because for one thing, how much credibility would I have if I was shown to be working with law enforcement? People are going to think I betrayed my source.”
