The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder, #2)

by Josh Lanyon

At least, he didn’t believe they had anything to do with the job. But adding to his general disquiet was the growing certainty that Kennedy had deliberately staged things the way he had to minimize how much fallout he had to deal with from Jason. He had profiled Jason from the first, and he continued to profile him. He knew that by framing their breakup—if you could call it that—in a professional context, Jason’s behavior was automatically constrained.

Right. In some forgotten corner of the universe life was going on as normal. His sisters were plotting a birthday party he didn’t want, his parents were comfortably unaware their only son was a suspect in a murder case, and George Potts was probably typing up his formal discharge papers right now.

“I was tired and depressed. Half a bottle of wine helped.” He shrugged. “Or didn’t help.” “You don’t have to explain your choices to me.” “No. I don’t.”

Jason went very still. “My boyfriend?” “Forget it.” “He wasn’t my boyfriend. I knew him all of four days.” How long had he and Kennedy been thrown together in Massachusetts? “If anyone was my boyfr—” Jason stopped. That was embarrassing.

Two photos. One was of a much younger and smiling Kennedy holding a dark-haired man in a playful headlock. The other was of the same dark-haired young man gazing solemnly out at the world. It was kind of like getting gut-punched. Unexpected and paralyzing. For a second or two it was impossible for Jason to think past his immediate, visceral reaction.

Jason continued to study the photo. Shock had given way to a cold sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The guy in the photo with Kennedy looked superficially like himself. Dark hair, light eyes, angular face, and thin build as Crazy Kyser would have said.

The bottom line was Kennedy did not want to have a relationship with him, and really, it didn’t matter why. Why didn’t change anything. “Ready?” Jason asked briskly, and had the satisfaction of seeing Kennedy’s surprise. It didn’t stop Jason feeling that his still-beating heart had been ripped out of his chest, but it was a tiny comfort to be able to defy Kennedy’s expectations.

Kennedy headed for a large round table by the window. Jason smiled maliciously at the strategic placement of a safety zone of white linen and silver hurricane lanterns between them.

Brandi’s eyes widened as he indicated his glass. “Again. Please.” She grinned. “Oh-KAY!” Kennedy glanced over, and his brows rose. He made no comment, returning to his menu. Hiding behind it, Jason thought sourly.

“They’re human enough. That’s what makes them frightening. Unfortunately, Darling’s formed an attachment to one of the deputy sheriffs up there in the back of beyond.”

Yes. How unfortunate to form an emotional attachment that might come before your fucking job.

“Right.” Kennedy hesitated. “I’ll say good night now.” That was a tactful way of letting Jason know that feelings or no feelings, they would not be sharing a bed. Just in case Jason hadn’t already got the message delivered by baseball bat?

Oh, hell yeah he wanted to meet this art teacher pal of Charlie’s. Bring it on. Bring him on. Hell, have him jump out of the fucking birthday cake. If Jason had listened to his family and friends—hell, if he’d listened to George Potts—he’d have been busy dating normal people and that would have formed a natural defensive barrier against sad, fucked-up, freeze-dried Sam Kennedy, who wasn’t just married to his job, he was married to his tragically dead lover. Who the hell could compete with that? Who would want to?

And even after the last forty-five minutes of bitter reflection and self-recrimination, Jason’s foolish heart still jumped around in his chest like an eager puppy when his master walked in the door. It was maddening.