“Sam,” I whisper, pulling back to get a better look at him.
He was always well-built, if a little on the soft side around the middle. It’s clear he’s lost a lot of weight in the time we’ve been apart and not in theI’m on a fitness buzzkind of way but more of theI drink far too much coffee and forget to eatvariety. But it’s his face I study, his once clean-shaven jaw and short, almost military-esque hairstyle having given way to dark stubble and pitch-black shaggy hair that hangs to his collar and is badly in need of a cut. But the thing I can’t help noticing is the nasty jagged scar puckering his skin, slightly dragging down the corner of his eye and running down his cheek.
“It’s good to see you,” I tell him honestly.
“Yeah.” He pulls back as we both take our seats on opposite sides of the bench table. “You too. You look good.”
“Thanks,” I smile.
“London agrees with you.” He studies my face with as much scrutiny as I’d mapped his.
“I guess it does.”
“Or maybe it’s the cute pathologist you’re practically shacked up with.” His mouth curves at the corner, crinkling his scar further.
I raise a brow. “And how would you know that?”
“Because I’m very good at what I do.” He chuckles. “Did you really think I’d come to London and not look you up?”
“No, but I’d kind of expected a phone call or a message at the very least,” I reply frankly.
He nods as he reaches for his coffee. “I had some things I had to work out first.”
“You look good,” I say after a moment.
“I look like shit, I think is what you meant to say,” he says quietly as he toys with the handle of his cup.
“Nah. Add a trench coat and a fedora and you’re one Maltese Falcon away from passing for a hardened film-noir PI.”
“Well, I certainly have the name for it,” Sam snorts. “All I need is a twenty a day habit and a penchant for whiskey sours.”
“Here’s looking at you, kid.” I raise my cup and toast him playfully before taking a sip.
He shakes his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “I’d forgotten about your film obsession.”
“How are you really, Sam?” I ask seriously. “I’m sorry I had to leave before you were fully discharged from the hospital, but my job started pretty much straight away. I sometimes think getting the job was less about my qualifications and more the fact they were desperate for staff.”
“I’m not surprised they offered you the job with an immediate start,” Sam replies, his dark eyes sincere. “You’re a hell of a detective, you know you are.”
“So are you,” I remind him.
“Once maybe,” he murmurs, staring into his cup. “But I’ll never work for the police force again.”
I nod. I completely understand why he’d feel that way. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye properly though,” I say, my voice tinged with regret.
“I probably wouldn’t have agreed to see you anyway,” he admits. “I wasn’t in a good place at that point. My recovery… ” He pauses. “Well, let’s just say it took longer than expected.”
“And are you? Recovered?”
He shrugs. “My broken bones are healed, and I’m more or less back to normal, just slightly less pretty and missing a spleen.”
“I didn’t mean physically,” I say.
“You mean, have I gotten over the fact I was attacked and almost beaten to death for being gay?” He sighs. “My life changed in ways that I couldn’t have possibly imagined that night,” he murmurs in quiet contemplation. “My life is… different now. I’m not the same person you knew, not even close.”
“I’m so sorry, Sam.” My heart hurts when I think about how badly he suffered, not just from the sheer hate and brutality of the attack or the physical scars he was left with, but from the way people we’d known for years—friends, colleagues—all turned on him. I know that some of them even thought he’d deserved it, although they hadn’t been stupid enough to say that to my face.
“Don’t be. I don’t need your pity,” he says in a firm voice. “It took me a long time to get my head straightened out and adjust to my new reality, but I’m content. I like it here in London and my business is doing well.”
