Page 88 of Parting Shot

And it was late. My brain sometimes just didn’t kick on.

“Is there anybody⁠—”

“Nate.”

After a moment, he said, “Duncan?”

“Yeah. Shit, sorry. I just realized it’s late there.” There was a two-hour time difference, and it was a quarter to midnight where I was.

“No, it’s okay. I’m up, feeding the baby.”

That was news. “Baby?”

He chuckled, and as always, it was a warm, deep tone. Dr. Nathan Qells always sounded good. “My granddaughter.”

“Oh.” I smiled into the phone. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. I’m giving her folks a break before they start shuffling down the hallway, looking for brains.”

“Little bit of Night of the Living Dead going on at their place?”

“New parents. It happens.”

I could imagine the scene.

“So, Detective Stiel,” he said kindly, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“This is gonna sound really stupid.”

“I doubt it.”

“I just wanted to call and apologize to you.”

“For what?”

“For not having the balls to come out when we were together. I’m so sorry, Nate.”

He caught his breath. “You came out?”

“Yeah.”

“To who?”

“To my captain, to my department, and there will be pictures somewhere—I suspect in one or more of those horrible gossip magazines next to the checkout stand at the grocery store—about me and Aaron Sutter.”

“Who?”

“Aaron Sutter,” I began. “He⁠—”

“Aaron Sutter, the billionaire hotel guy?”

I coughed. “Yeah.”

“Wow.” He sounded stunned.

“How do you know him?”

“I don’t know him,” he huffed. “I know of him. You’d have to be dead not to know who Aaron Sutter is. This is the man who said, ‘Hey, why don’t we build in the Pacific Rim? I hear it’s gonna be big someday.’”