Then Cole had appeared. Agent Kennedy. So young he still seemed to fluoresce neon green. Ian wanted to crawl across the room and pin Cole back, knock him to the ground and kneel on his chest, get his hands in Cole’s hair and his nose and his lips on Cole’s skin, on the delicate, paper-thin flutter of flesh between jawbone and neck. He wanted to smell Cole, inhale the essence of him. The smell of his fear, beneath the soap and the deodorant and the laundry detergent. The smell the dogs tracked.
