On his way upstairs to the interrogation rooms, Will stopped in the bullpen’s small kitchen area to freshen up his coffee. He was fiddling with the lid on his cup, trying to pop it off without breaking the flimsy plastic, and didn’t notice he wasn’t alone in the kitchen until he heard someone clear his throat.
Startled, Will splashed tepid coffee over his hands as the lid snapped off. “Grantland,” he said, barely sparing the senior officer a glance before he turned his attention to his drink. f**k.
“Morning, Will.”
Grantland had a wheezy voice that made him sound breathless, as if he’d just run up a flight of stairs and his heart was hammering its way toward cardiac arrest. Will didn’t like the way his name sounded in that voice—why Grantland refused to call him Detective like everyone
