He should have been right, and after he’d gone back to work he thought hewasright. Poring over the case files Fernandez had brought with her, reviewing the evidence collected for the current case, looking for parallels or connections or points for further research—he did it all, more or less calmly, with only a general awareness of his evening’s plans floating around in the back of his mind. That night he would see Wade, but until then, he was getting things done, and it was fine.
He took Fernandez over to review the crime scene, and they picked up dinner as they drove back, and everything was still fine. Sure, it was getting harder and harder to pay attention to the case, easier and easier to let his mind drift in directions that weren’t exactly work appropriate, but that wasn’t a big deal.
It was almost eight o’clock, and he was just packing up, thinking about stopping off at the drugstore on his way up the mountain to the old cabin, when he glanced out of his office and saw Wade slowly climbing the stairs. For half a second, Jericho let himself believe that there had just been a mix-up. Possibly they were supposed to be meeting at the station, or Wade had come by to give him a little more information from his mother, or . . . something. Anything.
But after that half second, Jericho saw the FBI agents walking close behind Wade, saw the lawyer Wade always used trailing along after them, and knew that his plans for the evening had just changed. Wade was being brought in for questioning. Probably about Kayla’s dad, but not necessarily. There were so many reasons the feds might want to talk to him.
Wade didn’t even glance in Jericho’s direction as he passed the office. No recognition, no acknowledgment. He was being discreet, of course, ignoring Jericho as a courtesy, not an insult. It was stupid to feel hurt by it.
Jericho sat in his office, alone, for far too long. He saw Fernandez leave for her motel and Kayla reluctantly drag herself home, probably to a night of worrying about her future and fuming about her father. He watched feds trail in and out of the interrogation room where Wade was being held. And, finally, he pushed away from his desk and went home. No stop at the drugstore, but after fifteen frustrating minutes of sitting on the couch, staring at the TV, he strode to the hall closet and yanked out his sleeping bag and a camping mattress. It wasn’t like he was going to sleep properly at the apartment, so he might as well go up to the cabin and try to find some peace there. At least he’d be keeping his part of the bargain.
It was all strangely familiar, driving up the winding mountain road, then turning off onto a dirt track that would have been a lot smoother in an SUV instead of a Mustang. He and Wade used to camp out at the cabin pretty often when they were kids desperate for some privacy. Sneaking around had been fun then, but now it felt wrong.
And it was even more wrong to push open the creaky wooden door and step inside, flashlight illuminating a space that was too well-remembered, and too damn empty. Wade was supposed to be here, but he couldn’t be.Because of choices he made, Jericho reminded himself.Consequences for actions he’s taken. Consequences you believe in.
Unless, of course, he was being questioned not about information he’d received from Donald Morgan, but information he’d given. Information Jericho had asked him to give. Shit. Did Jericho believe in the consequences for that?
He played the flashlight over the cabin’s interior, imagining for a moment that he was about to discover a stash of drugs or some other illicit item Wade would have arranged for him to find. A test or a dare or the first step in another bewildering manipulation. But the cabin was empty except for the same rickety wooden table and chairs that had been there decades ago, and a stained, mouse-nibbled mattress on the floor. The same one he and Wade had collapsed on so many times when they were kids? Quite possibly.
Jericho wrinkled his nose and unrolled his camping mattress in the middle of the floor, then shook his sleeping bag out on top of it. He’d slept worse places in his life, but he wasn’t going near that old mattress, not willingly.
He kicked off his shoes and eased down so he was lying on his back, looking up at the roof. Might make more sense to go outside so he could see the stars, but he didn’t move. Instead, he imagined he was somewhere else. A tropical island. Nothing too fancy, just a beach and some waves and a little hut with a clean mattress and nice sheets, an outdoor shower with fresh, cool water under the blazing sun—and Wade. Of course Wade would be there, adding to the perfection. He’d look at Jericho, and his eyes would glow with warmth that could so easily turn to heat. They’d touch each other, each as comfortable with the other’s body as with his own. They’d lie in bed, the white sheets contrasting with their sun-darkened skin, and they’d talk, and laugh, and nobody would judge them or even notice them. It would just be Wade and Jericho, like it always should have been.
Somewhere in the middle of all that he faded into sleep, and when he woke to morning light puddling through the filthy, cracked window panes, he was still alone. He rolled to his feet and gathered up his makeshift bed, but instead of taking it out to the car with him, he left the sleeping bag and mattress tidily rolled on the table. Maybe it was stupid, but it felt like a gesture of hope, or at least of stubbornness. He wasn’t giving up. Not again. Not yet.
