...Jake, a homosexual cop buried so deep in the closet he didn't know where to look for himself.

I'm not insane. This is very simple, very straightforward. Provided he doesn't kill me, its foolproof.

Anyone who wasn't half-stoned on pain meds would have instantly realized what a really bad idea this plan was, but since that didn't include me, I didn't worry about it.

He never lied to me. I just didn't ask the questions I didn't want to know the answers to.

I'm a thirty-something gay man with a dodgy heart. I sell books for a living. Who wants to read about that?

He shifted over without comment, lifting the blankets, and I scrambled into the warm sheets beside him. He smelled like soap and sleep and bare skin. He smelled familiar. Not the deja vu familiar of Guy or Mel. Familiar like...the ache in your chest of homesickness, of longing for harbor after weeks of rough seas or craving a fire's warmth after snow--or wanting back something you should never have given away.

Then, like a born and bred asshole, he added to the sheriff, "He writes murder mysteries.