Page 43 of Manner of Death

Bashir just laughed.

Sawyer tugged his sleeve back down, and Bashir’s humor vanished, replaced by a sudden rock in the pit of his stomach. He and Sawyer hadn’t even known each other when that man had slashed Sawyer’s arm, but Bashir remembered the incident. He remembered because although he hadn’t been the one to attend the death scene, he had performed the autopsy. It was one of thousands, but some stuck out in his mind more than others.

“Not all that blood is his,” Bashir’s assistant at the time had mused when they’d begun prepping to clean the body. “The cop who shot him is damn lucky he didn’t join him.”

Now that cop was sitting here on Bashir’s couch, alive but scarred.

Bashir’s mouth went dry.

Sawyer could’ve died that night.

And now, there was a serial killer who was apparently fucking with investigators. How long before he got bored with mind games and actually targeted them with his violence?

How long before something else happened? Like the brawl in the bar tonight? Sawyer’s injuries had been mild, but head injuries and bruised ribs were like getting grazed by a bullet—a millimeter or two in a different direction, and the situation got a whole lot worse.

How long before it was Sawyer on a slab in Bashir’s morgue? How long before—

“Hey.” Sawyer tilted his head. “You still with me?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I should, um…” Bashir thought fast, then pushed himself up. “I need to check on dinner.”

Sawyer didn’t say anything. Not that Bashir gave him much of an opportunity; he’d barely finished speaking before he got the hell out of the living room.

Alone in the kitchen, he paused with his hands flat on the counter, and he closed his eyes as he took some deep breaths. He tried to tell himself this was stupid. That he was freaking out over nothing.

But he’d been mentally off the rails since this morning. Since he’d had to be the one to tell a family their wife and mother hadn’t just died of natural causes. Since he’d been having one of those rare but intense moments of being overwhelmed by mortality and how unfair and brutal the universe was and…

And now I’m dating a cop.

This wasn’t a good idea. Not if he was going to stay sane, and he’d known that from the start. Since well before he’d given in to Sawyer’s flirtation. Yes, he liked the guy. He liked him a lot.

That was the fucking problem.

There was a laundry list of reasons he didn’t work with the living, and another of reasons he didn’t date cops, and both of those lists were hitting a little too close to the bone right now.

Just like that knife that could’ve killed Sawyer.

He swore into the silence of his kitchen and wiped a hand over his face.

I’m losing my damned mind.

Yeah, probably. Which meant he should just find a way to bow out of tonight so he could get his head together and—

Soft footsteps moved from the living room to the kitchen. Goddammit. Then a hand slid lightly over Bashir’s shoulder, and he had to swallow hard just to pull himself together. He wasn’t usually this raw or emotional, least of all in front of someone he really, really wanted to date despite all the reasons he didn’t want to date him. The last few days had just been… too damn much.

“Bashir.” Sawyer’s voice was as gentle as his touch. “Look at me.”

Bashir didn’t want to, but he turned around and met Sawyer’s concerned eyes.

“What’s wrong? We were shooting the shit about idiot lawyers and weird crap that happens, and then you bolted like I’d said something wrong.” His brow pinched. “What’s on your mind?”

Bashir dropped his gaze, scrambling to organize his thoughts. He ran his hand down Sawyer’s forearm, where the scar was now hidden beneath the sleeve. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.”

That was a lie. He had a feeling Sawyer knew it. Why bother trying to lie to a cop, for God’s sake? Especially a detective who was clearly quite good at his job?

Sawyer didn’t call him out on it, though, and the silence lingered for an uncomfortable moment.

Finally, Bashir moistened his lips and looked at Sawyer again. “I like you. I like… I like this. A lot. But…” He swallowed. “Look, I’ve done autopsies on cops before, Sawyer. Cops who’ve been killed on the job. I don’t…” He hesitated again, still trying to put his thoughts into order, and he ran a shaking hand along Sawyer’s forearm. “That scar you showed me? That guy could’ve easily killed you. Even after you shot him. I know because I’ve autopsied a cop who was killed by someone he’d fatally wounded. It’s…” Fuck, why couldn’t he talk?