Page 53 of The Night Of
“Jonathan, don’t do this. I have to be able to trust you, and right now, you’re making that really fucking hard.”
“Carl set up a dead drop at one of his safe houses. A house in—”
“Anacostia,” I said with him. The second key on Rose’s key ring. Those keys were still upstairs, in my jacket pocket on the floor of Jonathan’s bedroom.
Jonathan nodded. “The Secret Service drove me out and back.”
“Who? Who drove you?”
“Nguyen and another agent. I didn’t know his name.” He crumpled as he heaved again. His forehead pressed against the hardwood. Spit leaked from his lips, puddling on the floor. “Did I kill Steven?” Jonathan finally whispered. “Sean, did giving him that gun… Did I kill my best friend?”
God fucking damn it. I finally understood why he hadn’t told me. I dragged him up and into my arms, until he was lying against my chest and between my legs. His fingers clawed at my shirt, grabbing the fabric and my skin underneath. “No,” I croaked. “You didn’t kill him, Jonathan. Someone else did.” I sighed. “Someone wanted him dead. In the end, it didn’t matter that Baker had a gun.”
“And made it look like he killed himself. They didn’t just kill him, they killed his memory, his legacy. His reputation.”
I nodded and laid my cheek against the top of his head. A patch of wetness bloomed on my chest. His silent tears soaked my shirt, the scent of hot salt and heartbreak rising between us.
“You could have told me,” I said. “You didn’t need to keep this a secret.”
“I thought you’d say I was responsible. That Steven would still be alive if I hadn’t given him that gun. I thought…” His voice went thin. “I thought you’d hate me like I hate myself.”
“Someone wanted him dead,” I repeated. “That’s not your fault, Jonathan.” I thunked my head against the cabinet. I wished, I fucking wished with everything I was that Jonathan had come to me when Steven asked him for the gun. That he had trusted me with this, that he’d known we were on the same side. That he’d known, no matter what, I would have been there for him, and for Baker.
We huddled in Jonathan’s kitchen as the sun broke over the horizon, and the birds began chirping, and the day burst into bloom. Golden light spread over the walls, sunbeams reaching for us on the kitchen floor. I pulled my foot from the light.
“The FBI thinks you and I are involved in his murder. They think you sent me out to interfere with the official investigation. That I’m your cover for assassinating Baker.”
Jonathan jerked away from me. I couldn’t read the expression in his eyes, but I felt the detonation in his soul, how he came apart in the center of himself. I reached for him, but he pushed my hand aside. His gaze drifted, sliding across the walls and the floor until his eyes closed and he leaned back against the island, sighing like he was giving up breathing.
Fucking FBI. They were chasing shadows at midnight. Grasping at ghosts. If they had bothered to learn anything at all about Jonathan, they would know how fucking ludicrous such an accusation was. Jonathan would sooner die than turn against the people he loved. There was no doubt in my mind that Jonathan would trade places with Baker, gladly, if he could.
He shook his head. “I can’t let them destroy you. I can’t let them think you had anything to do with this.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with Baker’s death, and neither did you.”
“That won’t matter. Not if the FBI wants to believe their own narrative badly enough.”
“What are you saying?”
“What if I turned myself in?”
“That’s a terrible fucking idea.”
“It’s not. You can keep investigating—”
“And you’ll be ruined, Jonathan. Do you have any idea what would happen to your reputation if you were perp-walked out of here? Or out of the White House? If even a breath of accusation hit the media? The vice president assassinating the president?” He blanched, and I thought he was going to heave again. “No. I’m not letting you sacrifice yourself. Especially not to the fucking FBI. No, we finish what we started. We find the bastard who killed Steven.”
Jonathan said nothing as he threaded our fingers together. His eyes were red, his cheeks wet.
“We have fourteen hours.” I squeezed his hand. “That’s what I was able to get from the FBI. Fourteen hours to bring them answers and clear your name. So we do. We use every hour we’ve got.”
Jonathan took a deep breath, held it in. “How?”
“We turn everything we have upside down, and then we put it all back together again, and again, and again, until we pull the motherfucker who did this out of the shadows. We’re close, Jonathan. I can feel it. Andhe’sclose: the bastard who killed President Baker.”
* * *
Jonathan and I showered together,our hands and our touches saying what we weren’t able to choke out yet. I felt Jonathan’s apologies in every caress, every stroke of his hand down my back and my stitched side and over my arms. I washed his hair, massaging the shampoo into his scalp and trying to tell himI forgive youas I kissed the back of his neck.
