Colin and Joshua exchanged a sheepish glance.
David caught it and nodded, unimpressed. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.” He jabbed a finger at them. “The only problem you two have is getting it through your thick, egomaniacal heads that the worldwillkeep spinningjust fineeven if you’re not there to give it a nudge.”
Nate burst into laughter and leaped up to hug and kiss his husband, then turned to Colin and Joshua. “I’ve never heard a fundamental truth expressed more succinctly.” He pointed at David. “My husband is brilliant!”
“Well, we allknowthat,” Colin said, then bent towards Nate. “But… we’reegomaniacal?” he asked, feigning shocked surprise.
Joshua snorted out a laugh.
“Well,” Nate said, considering. “Youa little more than Josh, but you both seem to think that your presence is absolutely required for anything on earth to function as it should.” He patted Colin’s head. “And it’snot!”
“You have your own set of keys,” David told them. “You have your own room. It doesn’t matter if we’re here or not; you know you’re welcome.” He looked from one of them to the other. “So exactly what is your fuckingproblem?”
Colin nodded, then leaned in and gave David a warm hug. “Thanks, brother. I just hope you don’t get sick of us.”
“Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” Nate said, getting to his feet, his sorted decks of cards tight in his hands. “So… who’s up for euchre?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE NIGHT THE SKY CAUGHT FIRE
Late Afternoon—Colin’s Office
Colin flipped through the transfer packet, the rustle of paper nearly lost beneath the faint, mechanical sigh of the office vents. Everything was in order—incident reports, psych evaluations, the reassessment request—all proper and legal, and only parts of it true.
Across the desk, Detective Sergeant Raymond Price lounged back in his chair, one ankle hooked over his knee, eyes fixed on Colin like he was waiting for a match to touch gasoline.
“You knew this was coming,” he said, voice carrying the weight of too many years in interview rooms.
Colin didn’t look up. “Hell, I helped broker it. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Price’s jaw shifted under a day’s worth of stubble. “You knew what we were buying.”
Colin did look up then, eyes hard. “I knew exactly what we were buying.”
Moreno’s intel had shut down a sex trafficking ring—boys and girls, some barely teens. He’d handed over three corrupt cops, two judges, and a defense attorney laundering cartelmoney. He’d given them what they needed to close the book on Hannibal Barrett’s murder.
All of it—for one transfer.
And for pulling the gun away from his and Joshua’s heads.
Colin reached the last page: Greensville Correctional Center—medium security. General population.
Price leaned forward. “The paperwork checks out. Clean record. Stable behavior. Psychiatric team signed off. It’s all there.” He tapped the corner of the page. “Signature line’s yours.”
Colin’s pen hovered, unmoving.
“We were never going to keep Moreno in Red Onion forever,” Price added. “That place is for powder kegs. He’s not even close. Not anymore.”
“He’s not reformed,” Colin murmured. “He’s contained. That’s not the same thing.”
Price didn’t answer.
Colin signed. He clicked the pen, pushed the file away, and stood. His chair scraped loudly in the stillness.
“Tell Greensville I want eyes on him,” Colin said. “Surveillance logs. Monthly reports. If he so much as twitches?—”
“I’ll call you myself,” Price said, rising to match him.
