“Right here on the tip of my tongue.” He stuck his tongue out at me and I couldn’t believe how stupid and sexy it made him look.
I tried not to smile. From the bull-hockey totally sincere look on his face, he was trying not to smile too.
“All right, slugger. Ask your question.”
“Have you forgiven me for breaking up with you?”
Man went right for the gut. Had I? He had given up on me. On us. And yet he was right here, in front of me, still a part of my life. Maybe a friend. Maybe more.
Maybe a murderer.
I put that possibility aside for the moment.
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly, and bit at his bottom lip then released it. “Thank you.”
“Did you kill Sven Rossi?”
His shoulders jerked. “No.”
I searched his eyes, his face, his body for the truth behind that single word.
He held up a hand. “I’d like this to be outside the question game.”
“All right.”
“Holy, shit, Delaney. Sven’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“How? Since you’re asking me if I did it, I assume you don’t think it was an accident.”
“He was shot.”
Ryder rubbed his palm over his face, fingers lifting to tug his wind-mussed hair. “Jesus. Okay. And you think this has something to do with me?”
“Are we back on the question game?” I asked.
It was his turn to study my face. I could guess at what he saw. I had a good mask of indifference when I needed it. My eyes met his steadily. Waiting.
“Sure. Do you think I have something to do with Sven’s death?”
This might be my childhood friend in front of me, but there was something about those words, about how carefully he said them, as if he were using the question as a means to an end. Ryder wanted something from me, or expected me to be or do something.
He was digging for information just as hard as I was. I knew my motivation. What was his?
“Yes.”
Slight tightening of his eyes was the only response I got from that. Now it was my turn.
“Do you know who killed Sven?”
“Pass.”
“What? No.”
“I said I won’t answer three questions. That’s one.”
