Page 52 of The Night Of
I didn’t want to hear it if he was going to lie to me again.
What would I do if he did? Confront him? Call the FBI back? Summon Silva and his boy Friday and wait on the front porch for them to roll up with their handcuffs and their arrest warrant and take Jonathan in?
Fuck me.
Dawn was just beginning to creep over the edge of the horizon, the indigo night starting to lighten into smears of midnight and ocean and sapphire. More lights were on in the house, an amber glow coming from the landing, the stairs, and the kitchen. Jonathan. He was probably downstairs, standing by the coffee pot, watching it percolate. Did he have two cups out? Was he waiting for me to come back?
Did he think I’d never find out? Did he think he could hide this from me forever?
Fury began to fill me. We hadn’t gone through everything, hadn’t shared last night, only for this to be how we ended. No, sir.
I stormed back to the house, not bothering to sneak around the pool or head through the back. I slammed my thumb on the fingerprint lock over the front door, punched in my code, and barged in.
Jonathan was, as I thought, in the kitchen. “Sean?” he called.
“Yeah. It’s me.”
“I’m making coffee.” His voice was at ease, a gentleness in him that I hadn’t heard in a long, long time. I closed my eyes. My fury ebbed, the negative space left behind filled with a lurching pain.Why did you lie to me?“Come join me.”
I stood in the kitchen doorway, watching him. He’d put on boxers and an undershirt, but his hair was sticking up in every direction. Sex hair. His stubble shadowed his face, and in the light of the kitchen, I spotted a few specks of silver on his cheeks and chin. His bare feet whispered over the hardwood floor as he moved.
He looked so fucking beautiful.
“Jonathan…” My voice died.
He turned, first smiling, then stilling when he saw me. He set down the coffee he’d made for me.
“Jonathan, where did Steven get the gun?”
I watched the blood drain out of his face, and I knew: he knewexactlywhere the gun came from.
Thirteen
I’d imagineda dozen different reactions from Jonathan, everything from outright denial to anger to him shutting me out. I’d imagined the end of us at least a hundred different ways as I’d thundered up the porch steps.
Nothing I imagined came close.
Jonathan stumbled, barely catching himself on the island as he buckled forward. A second later, he hit the ground, landing on his hands and knees as he heaved. Spit and bile spattered the floor. He went down, face-first to the hardwood, groaning.
“Jonathan!” I dropped and slid on my knees as I reached for him, hauling him up. He was shaking, violent, bone-shattering trembles. He was less than pale. He looked like a corpse.
“You know?” he whispered.
“Your prints are on the gun. On the bolt and the side plate. Why?”
His eyes squeezed closed. “Because I gave it to him. Because I sneaked it into the White House and assembled it in my office. And then I gave it to Steven.”
I slumped, shifting from my knees to my ass and leaning back against the cabinets. “Why did you give him a gun?”
Jonathan’s teeth clenched. He was almost hyperventilating. “Because he asked for one. He said he needed it for protection.”
“We’rehis protection. The Secret Service! We’re the ones who keep the president safe!” My voice rose. “Why didn’t you come to us?”
Jonathan shot me a hard glare. “Who could I have spoken to? You? You weregone. I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t even know you were still in the Secret Service until I saw your name on the report from the night Steven—” He swallowed. “Steven asked Carl for a gun during their meeting in the Oval. No one can get into the White House without being searched or going through a metal detector except the president and VP. Carl gave me the gun and asked me to bring it to Steven. I did—in pieces, just in case—and I put it together in my office. I thought I was careful.”
“Not careful enough.” And, damn it, we were back to Carl. “How did you get the gun from Rose?”
Jonathan hesitated.
