Hazard kissed his jaw, his neck, the hollow of his shoulder.

Somers was struggling to get enough air; between panting breaths, he managed to say, “This, uh, this does something for you?”

“It’s the hat,” Hazard said, working a hand inside the track pants. Somers grunted and bucked into the touch. The last few days had left him so keyed up that Hazard’s hand felt electric. He leaned heavily into Hazard, face crushed against the side of Hazard’s head, and whined. “I like a guy in a hat.”

“Hat?” Somers managed to say. He tried to clarify the question, but all he got out the second time was: “Hat?”

Hazard’s hand moved faster, and Somers came with a cry, his hips rocking frantically while Hazard kissed him through the orgasm, Somers barely aware, unable to do anything more than accept.

As Somers’s breathing returned to normal, he settled next to Hazard on the narrow bed.

“Obviously,” Hazard said, picking up the thread again. “It’s the hat.”

CHAPTER FORTY

JULY 10

WEDNESDAY

10:59 AM

THE THERAPIST’S OFFICE occupied a small, clapboard house. It was in an older neighborhood that had slowly been commercialized, invaded by strip malls and parking lots; Somers parked the Mustang in back, where they had a little privacy. Hazard’s uninjured leg was bouncing.

When Somers put a hand on Hazard’s knee, Hazard said, “I think I left the stove on.”

“Oh.”

“Let’s just run back and check.”

Somers cocked his head and then said, “No.”

“It’s going to burn down the house.”

Somers nodded.

“Fine, if that’s what you want, fine. It’ll burn down the house. And our insurance won’t cover it, John. We’re going to be sleeping on the street.”

“I managed pretty well when I was on the run.”

“You came back wearing a panda t-shirt the size of a zeppelin.”

“Evie likes pandas. I bet we can find her a baby panda shirt. I know a place.”

“Just start the car. We’ll hurry. We can turn off the burner and be a little late for my appointment.”

Somers squeezed Hazard’s good knee, and Hazard blew out a breath.

“Yeah?” Somers said.

Hazard nodded and opened the door.

They walked inside together, and Somers was relieved to see that it wasn’t like a doctor’s office—he’d imagined a waiting room with peeling wallpaper, outdated magazines, and toys for bored children. Instead, there was something that, in a home, might have been called a mudroom: a place to ditch your coat and umbrella. Maybe it was a mini foyer. Maybe it was a vestibule. Maybe it was a cloakroom. Somers felt hot, and as he listened to his internal rambling, he realized he might be even more nervous than Hazard.

Passing through the mudroom—Somers decided on mudroom—they found themselves in what was clearly a waiting room, although not like the one Somers had pictured. A few tasteful, abstract paintings. Comfortable chairs and a sofa. Unlike the bluntly neutral color scheme that Somers remembered from the office of a therapist he and Hazard had investigated earlier that year, this room had rich, dark woods, warm leather, accentuated here and there with pops of bright blues and yellows. A door opened, and a woman stuck her head out.