“Coffee is,” Zechariah needled, though it seemed more banter than malicious.

He seemed to have been in an exceptionally good mood.

Then, the odd peace crumbled. Crane withdrew his hands, and Zechariah held the folder over his chest like a shield. It was him. It was him. He said as much, and there was no taking it back. Then … Crane backtracked. Did not necessarily like men. Had he been toying with him all along? But the shipwrecks. The shared realizations. He had to be.

Rather than say anything, Zechariah took a breath. He set the folder back down on the desk and took out the piece of trash that had started all this. It was still folded open to the page in question, and Zechariah finished reading it just in case there was something that would … that would erase all this.

There was not. Instead, there was Elijah Crane’s name from a jilted answerer.

He set it down on the desk, in small part so Elijah would have to move away from the door.

God, he prayed Crane was not fast with his own dots to connect.