What Hides Inside: Bay City Paranormal Investigations, Book 2

don’t see how we could possibly understand their motives.”
Andre didn’t answer, but Sam knew he was thinking of Amy, just as Sam was. Just as they all were, even Dean who’d never known her and hadn’t witnessed her death. Looking around at the people who had become his family, Sam had an idea. It terrified him beyond belief, but at the same time it felt like the right thing to do. He knew he had to try, if only to provide Andre with some sort of closure.
Drawing a deep breath, Sam straightened up in his chair. “At Oleander House, the thing communicated with me. I could sense what it was thinking. Or, well, some of it, anyway. Maybe I can do that again. Maybe I can get inside its mind, and find out why it’s doing this.”
In a shockingly quick movement, Bo pushed away from the desk and grabbed Sam’s arm in a painful grip. Sam stared up at him, stunned speechless. “Bo, what—”
“No.” Bo’s voice was cold and clipped, his eyes hard. “You are not going to try to talk to that thing.”
Torn between annoyance at Bo treating him like a child and a melting warmth at the man’s obvious desire to protect him, Sam sputtered incoherently for a moment. “Don’t you think that’s up to me to decide?” he demanded when he got his voice back. “Don’t you think—”
“No, I don’t,” Bo interrupted. “And neither do you, if you think for one second I’m going to let you risk yourself like that. No.”
Sam shot furtive glances around the room as Bo started pacing, pulling savagely at the end of his braid. David and Andre gaped at Bo, clearly taken aback by his uncharacteristic outburst. Cecile watched Bo stalk back and forth across the floor, the corner of her mouth curled up in a knowing half-smile.
Leaning toward Sam, Dean reached over and gently squeezed his hand. Sam gave him a grateful smile.
“I don’t plan on taking any unnecessary risks.” Sam retrieved his hand from Dean’s grip. “I just want to try, Bo. That’s all.”
Bo stopped and stood staring out the front window. “I know some of you have plans tomorrow. Why don’t we call it a day? Be here at eight a.m. Friday and we’ll complete the investigation of the old tunnel.”
Sam had heard that tone before, and they all knew it brooked no argument. With a deep sigh, Sam swiveled around to switch off his computer. As everyone else collected jackets and other belongings, Sam felt Dean’s hands on his shoulders.
“Have a good Thanksgiving, Sam,” Dean said softly. “See you Friday.”
“Yeah, you too.” Sam turned and smiled up at Dean. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing.” Patting Sam’s cheek, Dean backed away and headed toward the door.
“Dean,” Bo said as Dean got his jacket down from the coat rack, “could you stay for a few minutes, please? I’d like to talk to you.”
Dean’s eyes widened, but he otherwise showed no reaction. “Sure, Bo.” He flashed a wide smile at the rest of his coworkers. “See y’all Friday.”
Nervously, Sam watched Dean follow Bo into his office. He won’t say anything, Sam told himself as he tugged his jacket on. He trusted Dean to keep their tryst secret. Unless, of course, Bo asked him point blank if he and Sam had slept together. And therein lay the problem.
Sam knew Dean wouldn’t tell Bo what had happened between them unless he had no choice. What Sam didn’t know was whether Bo already suspected, and what he would do if he learned the truth.
    Sam spent a long, restless night in an agony of apprehension. His mind kept conjuring scenes of Bo dragging a confession out of Dean. The mental picture of Bo’s face filling with hurt and anger knotted Sam’s stomach. The worst part of it was that he didn’t know which would upset Bo most—that he’d had sex with Dean, or that Dean knew Bo was gay.
    Just before dawn, Sam gave up on sleeping. Kicking the covers aside, he dragged himself out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom. After relieving himself and brushing his teeth, Sam briefly considered lounging around in his underwear all day. He swiftly dismissed the idea as sad and pathetic.
    Heading back into the bedroom, he put on a pair of well-worn jeans and a long-sleeved Radiohead T-shirt. His mother would’ve frowned and ordered him to change, he thought, smiling as he sauntered into the kitchen.
    While the coffee brewed, he leaned against the counter, head swimming with exhaustion. He laughed, the sound rough and devoid of humor.
    “Happy fucking Thanksgiving,” he muttered