“Don’t worry. I already do.”

“Very funny. I’m trying to be serious.”

She made a poor attempt at a solemn face. “Please. Proceed.”

“You met my mom.” His heart raced with nerves and anxiety. When Elin nodded, he said, “It was just the two of us when I was growing up. Our church and our faith were important.” He let his eyes wander over to her, petrified by what he’d find. “They still are.”

“Okay. That’s no big deal to me.”

“When I was fifteen, I took a vow of celibacy.”

“Oh.”

“It was voluntary, and I stuck to it for a long time—a really long time. In fact, I only just recently—”

“Oh my God! You’re not saying what I think you’re saying!”

He looked down at his good hand, which had rolled into a fist in his lap. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I am telling you.”

“I mean before.”

“What difference would it have made?”

“It just would’ve been nice to know.” She studied him for a long time before her eyes widened. “You sought me out with that in mind, didn’t you? You figured I’d be easy.”

“No,” he said quickly. “I figured you’d be fun. And you were. We had a lot of fun before we ever had sex.”

“That’s true.”

“Are you mad?”

“I never would’ve guessed,” she said with a shy smile.

“Really?”

“It was amazing.”

“Yeah.” He shifted to accommodate his instant erection. “It was.”

“Why do you think I’ve put up with your crap the last couple of days?”

Clearing his throat, he said, “Because you want more?”

She bit her lip and nodded.

A hot ball of lust surged through Freddie and landed in his lap. “Your place or mine?”

Sam and Malone arrived at Devon’s Dupont Circle townhouse at the same time as the medical examiner.

“We meet again,” Dr. Lindsey McNamara said. “What’ve you got?”

Sam filled her in on what they knew. “I’m looking for a connection between Julian Sinclair’s shooting and this one.”

“If there’s a connection,” Lindsey said, “I’ll find it.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

Inside, the place smelled of pizza and death. Sam nodded to the officers who had arrived first on the scene.

“Called in by the pizza delivery guy, Mac Healy, age twenty-three.” The patrolman gestured to the living room sofa where Healy sat with his head in his hands. “Shook up.”

“We’ll talk to him,” Sam said.

“Tucker Farrell, age twenty-seven, shacked up with Sinclair, who owns the place,” the patrolman continued. “Farrell’s next of kin are his parents in Wilmington, Delaware.” He handed her a slip of paper with their phone number.

“I’ll call them,” Sam said, her stomach knotting. She hated making those phone calls. “What about Sinclair?”