He listened after dinner at his desk while Dean lay in bed with a book; listened carefully, earbuds in, pen poised to take notes. But the pen proved as unnecessary as he’d imagined it would be and before long, Quentin found himself deleting messages within seconds after they started. The few numbers he did take down were from people with incidental-at-best knowledge of the Inland Empire murders. A down-the-street neighbor of Cooper and LeRoy’s third victim, Ed Hart, who admitted they’d only spoken briefly. A former waitress who had served coffee to Carrie Masters and Brian Griggs—the couple’s sixth and seventh victims—two months before their deaths. A true crime buff with a theory that April Cooper and Gabriel LeRoy had been murdered by members of the Gideon family in some sort of ritual sacrifice, and that the fire that had burned their house down had been started by the ceremonial pyre. Yes, the voice mail pickings were so slim that he actually took that number down.

When he was close to halfway done, Dean asked him how things were going. Quentin just shook his head.

“Well,” Dean said, “it isn’t over till it’s over.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I have no idea.”

Quentin put the phone down and moved toward the bed. “Honestly. Who was the lazy bastard who came up with that expression? It isn’t over till it’s over. He didn’t even bother thinking of a synonym for ‘over.’ He basically just ran out of steam midway through the sentence and decided to repeat the exact same word.” He was beside Dean now, gazing at his soft lips, his twinkling eyes. “And yes, I’m aware that I said ‘he,’ but I wasn’t being sexist,” he said softly. “I know how patriarchal assumptions bother you academics, but actually, I’m saying that a woman wouldn’t be lazy enough to come up with that ridiculous, inane expression.”

Dean smiled. “You’re stalling.”

Quentin smiled back. “You’re right,” he said. “And I could think of better ways to stall.”

Dean’s grin grew broader.

Quentin took his husband’s hand and stared extra meaning into his eyes and started to sit on the bed, his smile turning to something with a more serious intent. He moved in closer, but Dean put a hand on his chest.

“Nope. Not falling for it,” he said. “Get back to me when you’re done listening.”

“Oh come on.”

“Just listen. If there’s nothing on there, I’m fine with hearing, ‘I told you so.’” Quentin started to protest, but Dean put a finger over his lips. “Either way, you’ll get laid.”

He pushed himself to his feet. “Why do you care so much?”