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None of this made sense. Kennedy, of all people, traveling around with a couple of ancient photos like he was clinging to a lucky talisman in the face of temptation made the least sense of all.
Kennedy expelled a long breath. His eyes were a blaze of blue. The only real color in the candlelit room. He said carefully, “West—Jason—I want to stay friends. I think of you as a friend. I…care about you.”
Jason stared at him. Why did that hurt so much? It really should help with the pain of rejection because he could see Kennedy meant every word. He could feel Kennedy meant every word. Why did it make it worse that Kennedy wanted to be his friend?
“I appreciate that. I appreciate—I’m grateful for everything you did for me today. But you said it yourself. It’s not practical to…” He had to stop there because it felt like a self-inflicted wound to cut off all possibility of anything with Kennedy. Which…didn’t that prove right there that amputation was necessary?
Kennedy’s throat moved. He nodded. The lines in his face seemed more pronounced.
Another thing. Why did it make Jason’s chest ache as much when he gave pain to Kennedy as when Kennedy hurt him?
“I don’t understand,” Jason said. It was the simple truth, straight from the heart. The way they had talked to each other for all those months. Although they had never talked about feelings. They had flirted plenty, but this…this was putting into words what he had imagined had been between the lines.
“I know.”
And no explanation was going to be forthcoming.
But Jason persisted. It was too important not to try, even though it already felt like a doomed effort. “I…guess I don’t have the right to ask, but it would help me understand...”
“Ask,” Kennedy said.
“The guy in the photo—he’s dead, isn’t he?” Jason watched Kennedy’s face.
Kennedy gave a crisp and uncompromising, “Yes.”
“But he’s the reason you’re no longer interested in…me.”
“Correct.”
Ask and ye shall receive. But apparently, that was too cold even for Kennedy. He said, “It isn’t a matter of my interest in you. I mean it when I say I care about you. What I told you in Kingsfield still goes.”
Jason nodded. He did his best to match Sam’s unemotional tone. “Right. But he’s the reason you changed your mind about pursuing anything more than a work relationship. It’s an old photo; you were both, what? College age? How did he die?”
It was one of the few times he saw Kennedy hesitate.
Jason decided to make it easy on him. “Was he murdered?”
Kennedy stared at Jason, his expression strange. As though this was a side of Jason he’d never seen, couldn’t quite get a handle on. “Yes.”
“His murder—”
Kennedy said harshly, “His name was Ethan.”
“Ethan’s murder is why you decided to join the FBI? To dedicate your life to hunting serial killers?”
Kennedy nodded slowly.
It made sense really. Personal motivation. Nothing unique about that. And yet the obvious explanation had never occurred to Jason.
“Okay. Ethan’s death was the catalyst. What I don’t understand is…that was how many years ago? I don’t see what it has to do with today. I don’t see why—”
Kennedy said quietly, fiercely, “Because I can’t do my job the way I need to do it if I’m distracted by you.”
“Distracted?” Jason repeated blankly. “Distracted how? It’s not like I was taking up a lot of your time and energy.”
Kennedy was still speaking with that startling, almost angry intensity. “Yeah, you were. Whether you know it or not. Take today for example. I’ve got an injured agent, two dead men, who knows how many other victims, and a media frenzy, but I drop everything to fly cross country because you need help.”
They’d been talking softly, but Jason’s voice rose at that. “I never asked for your help! I didn’t—and don’t—need your help.”
