In the past, that had caused him great personal pain as he had offended people and hurt their feelings, which in turn, caused him guilt so strong that it felt like there was a creature in his chest clawing its way free. But this was worse than anything he had ever felt. His actions hadn’t just earned him animosity or dislike or inadvertently hurt someone’s feelings. This time it had cost the lives of three people.

He had insisted on seeing the bodies. He would never forget the look in their eyes. The life that had been lost because of him. Carter had left the keys in the ignition. Burke could start up the Firebird and just drive away. Maybe buy an old cabin up in the hills. Or the mountains of Colorado. Somewhere he’d never see another face beyond the occasional trip to a grocery store to stock up on the necessities. A quiet life of solitude and peace. To August Burke, that sounded like heaven.

So why didn’t he do it? Start up the engine and go, leave everything behind. The pain, the hurt, the anxiety of feeling like a freak. He could reinvent himself, become someone else, someone who people may even like, in small enough doses. So why didn’t he go?

That question bounced around his brain without a real answer for a few moments until the door of the car opened, the dome light blinded him, and someone pulled him out.

He shoved the person away and assumed a fighting stance before recognizing Nic and Carter. He analyzed them both, assessing their level of inebriation.

“Let’s talk, kid,” Nic said.

“I don’t want to talk.”

Nic put an arm around Burke’s shoulders and squeezed as he led him toward a small picnic table in the front yard. Burke fought the urge to shove Nic’s arm away. He didn’t like to be touched, but it wasn’t because of the tactile feeling. It was due to the intimacy of the gesture, the closeness, the invasion of his bubble. But he resisted the urge to pull away because some part of him wanted Nic to treat him like one of his police brethren, maybe even like a friend.

Nic, with a bit more force than necessary, shoved Burke down into a seated position at the picnic table and then sat down opposite him. Carter had a bottle of brown liquid and three glasses in his hand. Nic dropped beside Burke and poured a shot of the alcohol into each of the glasses.

Nic swirled his drink, pushed one of the glasses toward Burke, and said, “Drink with us, kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” Burke said as he downed the harsh liquid. It tasted like lighter fluid mixed with brown sugar. He coughed.

Nic smiled and said, “You’re blaming yourself, but it wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was. I knew that the data suggested an insider. And when we interviewed the blonde earlier, her story didn’t add up for me. My instincts told me there was something off, but I ignored it.”