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At a guess? He’d thought it all over, come to a logical conclusion, and was here to cross another chore off his Things To Do list. Jason opened the door, and managed to say coolly, “Delivering the bad news in person, I guess?”
“Yes.” Sam looked grim. Tired and grim. He stopped, waiting, and Jason stepped back, waving him in with an advance to the next square motion.
Sam stepped inside. He was looking at Jason—only at Jason—and his expression seemed odd, watchful. “Jason, there isn’t any easy way to say this. I’ve seen the DNA results, and Kyser is not dead.”
Jason had been braced to hear something else entirely, so that was almost—almost—funny.
“I see.”
“I…wanted you to know as soon as possible.”
“Of course.” Not his imagination. That was definitely a strange expression on Sam’s face. “You want a drink? I’m pretty sure I need one.”
Sam hesitated. “Thank you.”
Jason gave a short laugh and went to the kitchen cupboard where he kept a bottle of Canadian Club in the hope that Sam might someday surprise drop by. And see, he’d finally got his wish.
He got out two short glasses, dropped a couple of ice cubes in with a clink, and poured the whisky, all the while conscious of the fact that Sam was still standing by the door—the better to make a quick escape?—silently watching him.
Jason said at random, “This isn’t really a surprise. I never thought he was dead.”
He handed Sam his drink, taking care not to brush fingers. “Geronimo.” He swallowed a mouthful of whisky and winced at the burn.
Jesus. Canadian Club was god-awful stuff. That alone should have warned him off Sam.
“No, you didn’t,” Sam said. “And I didn’t have to come here in person to tell you this.”
“I know. You’re going to miss the celebration party and the wraparound dick.”
Sam made a choked sound.
Jason stared at him. “So why did you come, Sam?”
Sam stared down at his drink like he didn’t know how it had appeared in his hand. He tossed it back in one gulp.
“Okay, then,” Jason said.
“I know why,” Sam said. He was looking at Jason with a kind of pained, inarticulate… expectation. Expectation of what? Understanding? Jason did not understand.
“You know why what?” Jason asked.
“I prefer to know what’s going to happen.”
“Uh, I think we all do.”
“No.” Sam shook his head. “With Ethan…I always knew what he would do, what he thought. I didn’t always like it, but I could always predict it. I can’t do that with you. I don’t always know what you’re thinking, and I can’t always predict what you’re going to do.”
“Well, that’s how it is,” Jason protested. “That’s how it works. I don’t know what you’re going to say or do either.”
“But I need that.” At Jason’s incredulous expression, Sam closed his eyes, seemed to struggle for the words. “I mean, I’m used to that. I don’t like feeling vulnerable. I don’t like feeling things are out of control. And when you lie to me—”
“Jesus Christ,” Jason said. “I didn’t lie to you. I came to you for help—”
“And I let you down,” Sam cut in. His eyes were dark with emotion. “I’m sorry. I feel… I regret it. I wish I could do it over. You were right this morning. It wasn’t about me. I should never have made it about me. Or about us.”
Jason had not expected an apology. Had certainly not expected Sam to try to work through where it had all gone wrong for them. But maybe he should have because Sam was nothing if not analytical. Even if it was over for them, Sam would want to understand why.
Sam said, “But where you’re wrong is about turning you off, shutting you out. I can’t. Even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. You’re the best thing in my life. Maybe the best thing that ever happened to me. You’re my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night. That’s the truth. I’m not cold. Not where you’re concerned. If I could get a little distance—”
