Page 38 of Sigh of Relief

Did Elton have those moments? Maybe not now, but in the past? There must have been something he loved about the job to stay with the Bureau for so long.

If you could go back to a time in your career that was perfect, when would that be? he texted, no intro, no platitudes, just the way they still started every conversation, still getting to know each other, a question there for Elton to pick up if and when he had time.

Which turned out to be five minutes later. 2018-2019. But that was all the surprising answer he provided for the next hour, reply dots staying interminably on-screen until finally the rest of his answer appeared. DC was still mostly leaving us alone out here, and there was a case that was personal. I opened myself up. Got some good friends out of it and put away the bad guy.

Was that what you liked most about the job? Archer replied. Putting away the bad guys?

Reply dots appeared right away, and Archer ducked away from Ezra’s side, cutting through the crowd around the farmers market stand where Ezra was haggling with the purveyor. “Sorry about him,” Archer said, offering the others in line an apologetic smile. “You can take the boy out of the bodega but not the bodega out of the boy.” A few of the patrons laughed, others rolled their eyes. Archer paid them no further attention, skirting across the blocked-off street and around the corner of a building to a quieter, shadier spot.

Just in time for Elton’s answer. No, that was just a particularly nasty one. When I was a field agent, it was solving a case. Once I became an AD, it was visiting new places in my jurisdiction.

Archer was typing his reply—What’s the favorite place you ever visited?—when a flurry of pictures came through.

Stoplights in small towns from across California, judging by the terrain and the vegetation; Archer knew it all well. The photos were impressively consistent, the same golden hour lighting and off-center composition in each. If Elton ever put them together in a wall collage, they would look like an intentional series.

Did you study photography? he asked.

Good eye, Elton sent back with a wink emoji. Thought I was going to be a crime scene photographer until I decided I liked solving crimes better.

Which of these is your favorite place you ever visited?

None, Elton replied, followed by My favorite with a picture from the upper block of La Montagna Nebbiosa, the morning sun a backdrop for the low-lying fog snaking through the rows of vines, the ground beneath them covered with yellow and white flowers.

Archer thanked all that was holy he was no longer standing beside Ezra, because his best friend would never let him live down the lovesick grin that stretched across his face.

Kiss-ass, he replied, keeping the tone teasing, wanting to keep Elton engaged and in a positive headspace, anything he could do to help him, to make the load lighter from three thousand miles away.

Elton sent the kissy-face emoji back.

Which made Archer grin wider. It’s a gorgeous picture. You should frame it.

I did. Come to my place when I get back, and you can see it.

I’d love that, he texted, heart pounding with anticipation. Soon, he hoped. Any idea when? he asked.

Friday. Sooner than Archer had thought. I don’t care, Elton continued. Need a break.

Archer’s heart pounded harder—a reunion only two days away. The time apart hadn’t been as long this time, Elton returning twice since the end of June, but that whole falling hard and harder for the man on the other end of the text thread was making any absence feel too long. Did Elton feel as strongly? For a man who missed travel, who considered that one of his favorite parts of the job, was Archer expecting too much, asking too much? What did the future look like for them? What do you want the rest of your career to look like?

Elton answered with a picture taken during his last visit. The stoplight downtown, Archer leaning against the pole, making eyes at the photographer after a dinner of excellent food and too much wine.

Archer didn’t worry about their future any longer.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Balancing a cardboard carrier of mini Giants helmets full of gooey caramel popcorn, Elton strode the length of the club-level concourse. From the Second Street gate where he’d entered to the opposite side of the ballpark along the first baseline, through the glass doors and down the stairs to the row of seats that had, over the past few months, become one of several unofficial Talley Foundation offices.

“Finally,” Aidan bemoaned, a hand already out for the sweet treat that whichever of them arrived last was obligated to buy the others, the popcorn stand on the complete opposite end from Nic’s vendor seats, Gravity a staple now at the ballpark.

“You better eat it fast.” Elton handed him a helmet and a plastic fork. “Or else this heat will make it even more of a mess.” He reached past Aidan, handing Nic his, then lowered into his seat, balancing the carrier on his knees long enough to roll up his own sleeves. Summer day games could go either way—banked in by fog or baking in the sun. Today, Karl had deserted the city, and even though Nic’s seats were in the shade, it was a balmy afternoon at the park. Elton let the carrier drop between his knees, just a fork and his mini helmet of popcorn left in hand, taking a few bites of what he’d never admit to Aidan was his favorite too before launching into updates. “Bring me up to speed.”

“I’m done,” Nic said. “As soon as I can be.”

“LA bestie?”

“The guy’s a liability to the department and a menace to society. He’s calendaring depos up here next month and not checking our office or court calendars first. There’s no room and no staff for his frivolous cases.”

“But those are the only ones that matter now,” Aidan mumbled around his popcorn.