Malcolm Bright

Focus, Caffrey.

Focus.

If you can’t be objective, be mercenary.

“No,” he says softly, “no, it does matter.”

That’s not a lie. He lets his hands rest in his lap, instinct making him want to hold Malcolm’s hand, but he practically recoils from his own mental impulse. How can he care about someone he doesn’t remember this much? Is that what it is, this anxiety, this brutal mix of longing and terror?

Use it, his survivor-self hisses. Use the feeling, if you can’t avoid having it.

“Tell me?” It’s very tentative.