“I didn’t intend to sleep this long.”

“That’s what you get for staying up all night.”

He’s wearing an exquisitely cut charcoal suit with a light gray shirt and the tie I bought him for Father’s Day last summer. I know he hates that tie; I have the fashion sense of a toad, especially when it comes to dressing a man. But I know he wears it because he loves me.

Lowering himself onto the bed next to me, he puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me against him. “I tried to wake you for dinner, but you were out cold.”

“You know that’s no reflection on your cooking, right?”

He smiles. “I picked up a sandwich at Leo’s for you.”

I make an exaggerated sound of disappointment, wondering if he has any idea how comforted I am by his presence. “You know we’re putting Leo’s kids through college, don’t you?”

“You know his name isn’t really Leo, right?”

That makes me laugh.

“That’s better.”

“Where are you going?”

“Dinner with the brass.” He smoothes a strand of hair from my face. “Do you want to talk? I have a few minutes.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“I heard what happened to Hoch Yoder. It was on the news.” He leans close and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I’m sorry. I know you liked him.”

“Are they calling it a suicide?”

“Yeah.”

Talk of the case reminds me that I lost half a day and how much I have to do. I try to rise again, but he stops me.

“Wait.” Gently, he wraps his fingers around my biceps and turns me to him.

I look up at him. “Tomasetti, I have morning breath.”

“Do I look even remotely concerned about that?”

He sets his mouth against mine and I melt into him. My arms go around his neck and I pull him closer. I kiss him hard, using my tongue, wanting more. He kisses me back in kind, and in an instant I’m swept away. It’s crazy, but even as he holds me, I feel an inexplicable rise of desperation, of wanting that has nothing to do with physical needs, and I wonder how it is that my love for him can be so all-encompassing.

After a moment, he pulls away. His face is scant inches from mine. His pupils are dilated, his mouth wet. “I have to tell you something.” His voice is low and rough, his nostrils flaring, but he isn’t smiling. “Before you hear it on the news.”

Something cold skitters up my back. “What?”

“Joey Ferguson is dead.”

I hear the words as if I’m standing in some vast canyon, and they echo off rocky cliffs. I’m so shocked that it takes a moment for the words to register. “Dead? How?”