totally worn out, and then you went into overdrive again.”
“That’s still not an excuse. I shouldn’t have treated you like that. When . . . when that happens, I can’t even really think. I’m just reacting, and the anger is just like this oil slick on top of the fear.”
Somers considered this; then, leaning forward, he kissed Hazard. “We’ll start looking tomorrow. You want someone who does CBT; from the research I’ve looked at, that’s the only data-driven therapy that helps with PTSD.”
When Somers tried to get up, though, Hazard’s arms tightened until Somers grunted again.
“Hey, let go, I’m—oh.”
The first kiss was on his neck, followed by the scrape and burn of Hazard’s stubble. Then another kiss, higher. Then Hazard’s mouth on his. And Hazard hard under him, rocking up slightly.
“I made you—” Somers fumbled the words between kisses. “I made you a salad.”
Growling, Hazard rolled so that Somers was pinned beneath him, and then he began working Somers’s fly. “I’ve never heard you talk like that before.”
“Oh yeah? You liked that?”
“Yes. Definitely.”
Somers arched his back, hiking up his shirt, letting his hands play over the swirls of ink on his belly. “You like me taking charge? Telling you what to do?”
Hazard yanked, and Somers’s trousers shot down to his ankles. Then Hazard snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Now say that stuff again. The part about research. And data-driven. Definitely say data-driven again.”
CHAPTER SIX
JULY 2
TUESDAY
1:06 AM
HAZARD WOKE TO A buzz-buzz-buzz.
“John,” he mumbled, poking his fiancé in the ribs. “Phone.”
Somers made a noise that sounded like gargherrrr and rolled away. Hazard poked him again, and this time, Somers shot upright. His face was blank, his blond hair wilder than usual. He stared out into the darkness and said, “Stay away from that calendar, Emery Hazard.”
Groaning, Hazard shoved Somers toward the nightstand and burrowed under the pillow.
After a few more buzzes, Somers answered the phone with a groggy, “Somers. Yes, Ehlers. This is Somers. That’s why I answered the phone by saying Somers. For fuck’s sake. For fuck’s sake, why the fuck didn’t you say something?”
The clatter of the phone hitting the nightstand was followed by the bed shifting, Somers’s bare feet hitting the floor. Hazard squashed the pillow, peeking out, and said, “Bad?”
“Bad,” Somers said, dragging on jeans. “Get up. You’re coming too.”
Hazard rolled out of bed and started digging through the clothes he’d left by the side of the bed. The denim rasped against his legs. His fingers fumbled the button on the waistband, failing to secure it once, then twice, and then he abandoned it with a disgusted breath and yanked the zipper up. A buzzing sound had filled his head.
“Is it . . .”
Somers grunted once and might have nodded as he wriggled into a tee.
“John?”
“Yes,” he said. “It looks like it, anyway. The Keeper of Bees.”
Hazard sat to pull on socks. “At the college again?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“Sexten Industrial Park.”
“Do they know—I mean, who . . .” Hazard couldn’t finish; his mind flashed to Mitchell, and the locks, the alarms, the cameras.
“Susan.”
“Who?”
“Ree, sweetheart: socks. Hurry.” Somers was belting on the holster with his Glock. “Susan Morrison.”
“Wesley’s girlfriend?”
Somers shoved his feet into sneakers and came to stand in front of Hazard. He brushed the dark hair out of Hazard’s eyes and said, “Is this too much for you? There’s no judgment, but I need you to be honest.”
“No,” Hazard said, dragging on the socks. “No, it’s not too much.”
“Would you tell me?”
“Of course.”
“God, you’re an awful liar.”
Hazard asked more questions as they drove across town in the Mustang, but Somers didn’t have any answers. Between questions, Hazard could only stare out of the car. At this hour, so much of the city was dark that the few remaining lights seemed spread out across enormous distances—dim, yellow sodium lamps; harsh, brilliantly white specks of halogen; a wink of red at a traffic blinker. The smell of fast food lingered in the Mustang, something Somers must have picked up during a long day of work, and Hazard’s stomach turned. He leaned into the window; the glass was cool under his skin.
Sexten Industrial Park was located out past the Tegula plant, which was a manufacturer of ceramic tiles near the city limits. The approach was disorienting; they first had to pass the Tegula plant, which was ablaze with lights and activity, the third shift in full swing. For a moment, as they drew even with the factory, it was like something out of a bleak future: a world of steel and incandescence and shadows. And