“Seth,” Elliot interrupted, his tone a little sharp.
I shot him a look that asked how on earth he could think otherwise.
“Seriously, though, Mays, Bucky has a point. How the fuck are you this normal?” Hart asked me. “Your…sperm donoris an abusive, evangelical,homicidalfuck-nut. How did you end up with anything resembling a moral compass, much less actually beingnice?”
I wasn’t sure I qualified asnice, but I suppose in comparison to Hart, I at leastsoundednice. Hart is actually very nice, he’s just also a foul-mouthed asshole.
“Seriously, Mays. That is one seriously fucked-up pedigree.”
“Not helpful, dickhead,” Elliot interjected.
“Right. Sorry, Mays.” Hart cleared his throat. “Here’s the problem. I’m not sure if we’re allowed to intervene in this case,” he admitted. “Your killer might be a shifter, but that doesn’t meet the criteria for federal intervention. There might besomething…I don’t know. So I’m going to send all the details to Raj to see what, if anything, we can do.”
Raj was Special Agent Rajesh Parikh, the senior agent on Hart’s team and the guy who either got to make the calls or, at least, who did the liaising with the powers-that-be to get approval to take cases. I’d met the big tiger shifter once or twice—he was as tall as Hart and half again as broad—and he seemed like a good enough guy. But I also knew that when it came to things like federal-versus-local turf wars, there was only so much they could do.
“Come out here,” Elliot said to Hart.
Hart sighed. “El?—”
“You did it for me,” he snapped.
“Yes, I did. And Gale Smith was really damn tolerant about me sticking my nose into his shit,” the elf replied. “But I wasn’t a fed when I did that. I was a PI, and I could investigate on your behalfasa PI. As an FBI agent, I really,reallycan’t fucking do that.” Another sigh. “In fact, if I try, I’m more likely to fuck things up even more than if I don’t.”
“Bullshit,” Elliot said.
“Sadly, no,” Hart replied. “I come down there, and I start a goddamn jurisdictional war. Virginia is fucking militant about where the lines get drawn because they’ve had a stick up their asses about federal overreach since the goddamn 1860s.”
I almost asked what happened in the 1860s, then remembered. States’ Rights. The War of Northern Aggression. Not that I actually called it that on purpose anymore, but I’d learned about it that way as a kid.
Elliot let out a growl.
“Trust me, Bucky, I don’t fucking like it either. But unless you want me to piss off the local LEOs”—law enforcement officers—“even more than they already are, I need to stay on my side of the shitty line until something lets me cross it.”
“Elliot, please stop.”
Elliot had stayed surly about that conversation for at least a few more hours, until I couldn’t stand his pacing and ranting any more.
He stopped moving, running one hand over his head, a few of the white strands from the streak in his black hair getting stuck on his fingers, and he tugged irritably at them, pulling one or two out. “I just?—”
“I know,” I interrupted him. “But I can’t?—”
My voice broke, and he was immediately on the bed with me, his arms coming around me. “I’m sorry, baby.”
I sighed into his solid shoulder. “It’s okay.” I wanted to complain. To tell him that I didn’t want to be here anymore. That I just wanted to go home. Because I desperately did.
Part of me really wanted to just suggest that we pack up and go home to Shawano, fuck whatever Momma had left me, fuck the house, even fuck the goats and chickens. Someone would take them in.
And then I thought about Noah, who was still in jail. Noah didn’t have the luxury of even contemplating going home.
I was a terrible brother.
Not a great boyfriend, either, for that matter, since I’d basically yelled at Elliot for wanting to help me.
“Tell me what to do,” he said softly.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I—” I stopped, letting out all the air in my lungs on a sigh.
“Anything,” Elliot murmured.
