He thought North was unconscious,” Shaw said at what he assumed was a very reasonable volume.
Judging by the way Detective Reck winced and worked a finger in his ear, Shaw figured his own hearing was still slightly messed up. Reck said something like, “And then he shot him?”
Shaw settled for nodding.
They were at Barnes again, and Shaw was in a hospital room meant to be shared, although currently he was the only occupant. Barr had put him through a series of questions, and Shaw had answered them, and then Barr had left and Reck had come in and asked basically the same questions. Shaw guessed that Barr was currently running North through the same series of events.
“What about the blackmail materials? The recordings?”
Shaw shook his head. “No sign of them.” He had hidden the flash drive inside an ancient gas oven—the metal barrier that he had crashed into on stage at the Lucky—before the police arrived. Shaw wasn’t sure why. He knew something was wrong, but he wasn’t sure what. Something was swimming in those dark waters deep in his brain, and Shaw wasn’t about to hand over the blackmail material until he knew why he felt that way. “I thought I’d find them in the dressing room—Regina had told us about a blackmail video involving a dressing room—but there was no sign of the drive.”
“What drive?” Reck asked, his eyes suddenly bright.
“External hard drive. Flash drive.” Shaw shrugged. “Whatever he stored the videos on.”
“You really think Mark Sevcik would store his blackmail materials within ten feet of a person he was blackmailing?”
Shaw smiled. “Pretty stupid, right? Regina was convinced we had them, though. She was going to kill us to make sure nobody else got them.”
Reck shrugged; he was wearing another of those damn-near-transparent white shirts, and it rode tight against the ripple of muscle in his chest and abdomen. He stood, stretched, and considered Shaw again. “You’re very pretty. Not classically pretty, God, I don’t mean that. But very, very pretty in your own way.”
“Thank you?”
“But you’re a shit liar.”
“What am I lying about?”
“I don’t know. But I’d guess it has something to do with your boyfriend.” He jerked his head down the hall toward the room where they had taken North.
“North’s not my boyfriend. He has a husband.”
Reck had a tight smirk on his face. “I know.”
Eventually, the detectives released both men, and Shaw found himself standing in the hallway, studying the bandage on the side of North’s head. Aside from the injury, aside from the blood on the Carhartt jacket, aside from North’s pallor and the way it made those ice-rim eyes huge and glowing, aside from the memory that played and replayed in Shaw’s mind—the way North’s head had rolled, the bloody swatch of hair, the certainty that North was dead—aside from all of that, everything was exactly the same.
“That bad?” North said.
“It’s kind of a World War I shell-shocked look. You need a Florence Nightingale.”
North pulled a face. “Christ, Tuck is going to be furious.” He looked like he might say more, but then he pulled his phone from his pocket. “That’s him. He’s down in the pick-up zone. Come on, we’ll give you a ride.”
They walked to the elevator in silence. They rode the elevator in silence. Shaw kept catching himself moving: his hand drifting toward North’s, his head tilting to rest on his shoulder, his body angled to the hard lines of the other man. He stopped himself again and again. His mind kept up that stuttering loop: the way North’s head lolled, the blood, the terrible stillness. Then the elevator dinged, and they walked in silence to the pick-up zone. Tuck’s Beamer was just passing them, and the steady flow of traffic meant that Tuck had to continue forward, looping around for another pass before he could pick up North.
Shaw managed to say, “You were right. I should have organized my desk. I should have put the silly string somewhere else.”
North didn’t answer.
That wasn’t the right thing. That wasn’t the thing Shaw wanted to say. The thing he needed to say. It was now, Shaw thought. Now. Now or never.
But before he could say anything more, North said, “You’re my best friend in the whole world.” His head was down, his hands stuffed in the Carhartt jacket, and he was kicking the toe of one Red Wing against the curb. “And I know I fucked up royally. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just—I wanted you to know how sorry I am. And that I want you to be happy. And I’m so fucking proud of you because you are the most fucking amazing person I’ve ever met.”
Shaw tried to say something. All the stupid, smart-ass things they normally said to each other. Or something better. Something truer. He even tried to say the full truth, what he hadn’t been able to say in eight years. And none of it would come out.
Then the Beamer swept around, its halogen lights splitting Shaw’s head like a migraine, and he knew the moment had passed.
“Come on,” North said. “We’ll take you home.”
“No,” Shaw said. “No thanks.” He rose up on tiptoe and dragged North into a hug, and before he knew what he was doing, he kissed him on the cheek. As Shaw dropped back onto his heels, he said, “Back to work tomorrow.”
North’s hand drifted up like he wanted to touch that spot on his cheek. Then it froze, and he lowered it. And then it drifted back up again. Then it froze.
“Partners?” Shaw said.
North nodded. His lips quirked like he had something to say. Or like something else, maybe.
The Beamer’s horn blared.
North’s hand dropped to his side. Slowly. And then he took a few steps toward the Beamer, and for a moment, Shaw thought he might turn back, say something, do something, but then his stride firmed and he jogged the last few steps. As North pulled open the door, Tucker’s voice drifted out. “Not trying to be an asshole, babe, but there are people waiting. Jesus, what did you do to your—” And then the door swung shut.