It was Jason who peeked out from around Nathaniel’s wider shoulders to grin at me. He had that look in his eyes, that mischievous look that said he was going to push his luck in some way. There was no malice to Jason, just an overly developed sense of fun. I gave him the frown that should have told him, Don’t do anything that I’ll regret. It did no good to say he would regret it, because he wouldn’t.

He was handsome, too, but he, like me, was not the prettiest person in the room with Nathaniel standing there. He was Nathaniel’s best friend, and I lived with the prettiest boy in the room, so we were used to it. What made Jason appealing was not the packaging-the blue eyes; the yellow-blond hair, now long enough that he’d started having Nathaniel French-braid it for dance class; the almost-not-there tank tops and shorts, which showed off his own muscular and very nice body, all packed into a nice five-foot, four-inch frame-it was that grin and that light of mischief that made his eyes bright with thinking naughty thoughts. Not sex, though that was in there, but just a host of things he knew he shouldn’t do, but so wanted to do.

To forestall whatever he had planned, I said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Bennington, and sorry I can’t help you more.”

Jason’s a good guy at heart, and his face sobered, and I knew he’d take the hint. Nathaniel turned at the sound of my voice, but his face was sober, too. He knew what kind of work I did, and knew that I dealt with more grieving relatives than most police.

I had a moment to see those huge violet eyes, like an Easter surprise in a face that was somewhere between beautiful and handsome. I could never decide if it was the eyes or all that hair, then he’d pull the hair back so you could see his face. I’d gazed at him sleeping often enough to know that he was just that beautiful.