Page 17 of In His Sights

Gary walked out of the apartment, not hearing a word Lomax was saying. His foot slipped on a step and he stumbled, but Lomax grabbed his arm and held on to him. By the time they were outside, he couldn’t fight the nausea a second longer. His stomach heaved, and he threw up onto the grass, retching, bent over until all he could taste was bile. His stomach muscles ached.

“Detective?”

Gary straightened, and Lomax held out a paper tissue. He took it without a word and wiped his lips. “Thank you,” he croaked.

“I’ve got a bottle of water in the squad car.”

Gary followed him to the car and waited as the officer opened the passenger door for him. He got in, still so fuckingnumb. Lomax handed him a bottle, and he drank a few mouthfuls.

“You keep that.” The officer waited, and when they didn’t move, Gary glanced at him. He pointed to Gary’s waist. “Your seat belt.”

The ache in Gary’s throat hadn’t eased. He fastened the belt with a click, and the car engine burst into life. They pulled away from the curb.

Gary leaned against the headrest and closed his eyes, grateful for the silence that fell.Cory. Cory. You told me you played safe.

Not safe enough.

His body and mind wanted to shut down, but he fought them, fought the emotional numbness that settled on him, a stifling blanket he wanted to throw off but lacked the energy for.

Did he know his killer?

Did hetrusthis killer?

Then such questions were shoved aside, and all he could think of was Cory standing beside him at Brad’s graveside, Cory’s hand wrapped around his, Cory at the prom, looking fuckingediblein a tux, so breathtakingly handsome that the sight of him robbed Gary of speech. Cory and him bowling. Cory and him in college, drinking long into the night, putting the world to rights.

Cory flirting with every cute guy who crossed his path. Cory flexing. Cory swimming.

Cory—dead.

He wanted to cry, but he’d be damned if he was going to do that in a squad car with an officer he’d just met.

A hand nudged his arm. “We’re here.”

Gary thanked him, got out of the car, and headed for the elevator that led up to Homicide. The doors slid open, and Lieutenant Travers stood there, arms by his side, his face grave.

“Let’s go to my office,” he said in a low voice.

Gary knew better than to argue. He followed Travers to his corner office and waited while Travers closed the door. He pointed to a chair, and Gary sank into it. Travers went over to the filing cabinet. “You like bourbon, I recall.”

Gary managed a nod.

Travers reached into the top drawer and removed a bottle and two glasses. He poured about two fingers into each glass, then walked around the desk to hold one out to Gary.

“Drinking on duty?” Gary murmured.

“You’re not on duty, not anymore. When we’ve finished talking, you’re going straight home.”

Gary didn’t argue. He’d expected as much.

Travers sat in his big chair, his glass in his hand. “I’m so sorry, Gary.”

“Not as sorry as I am.”

“Tell me about him.”

He gazed at Travers with widened eyes. “Really?”

Travers nodded. “Bottling it up doesn’t help, so let it out. How long had you and Cory been friends?”

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