Like a candle guttering out, Reza’s expression flickers to devastating blankness. The detective watches, spine tingling cold, as Reza breathes out and is still.
So incredibly still.
“Bet he’d go to the big dance if you asked,” rumbles an amused voice to his left. Vince turns his head reluctantly to see Mason leaning next to him by the crackling fireplace, working his way through a plate of every appetizer offered, black bowtie loose around his grey shirt’s lightly starched neck. “Think he might fancy you.”
“Jeepers, Mister,” Vince responds flatly, eyes unerring on their sweep back to where Reza is once again engaged in animated conversation. “Y’think he might?”
“Nah,” Mason denies. “Croquette?”
“Well I wouldn’t call him that,” Vince mutters distractedly. There’s a man the detective ha
