Mutual Possession (Nine Tenths of the Law #1)

6. Spencer

Chapter six

Spencer

The more I stare at the two photos side by side on my monitor, the more they blur together. A persistent ache has set up shop behind my right eye, and I don’t think it’s going anywhere anytime soon.

Leaning my elbows on the desk, I rub my forehead and blink to clear my gaze. “What do you think?”

“I think you need to put your glasses on.”

“I really don’t.” He needs to give that argument a rest.

“Where are they?”

No fucking idea. I don’t carry them on me. If it were up to me, they wouldn’t exist. I don’t need help to read , for fuck’s sake.

“Spence.”

Why does he have to say my name like that? “Ken,” I mimic. If he’s so obsessed with the glasses, he can wear them himself. Not a terrible idea; he’d look hot. We can get some that don’t have lenses in them.

Kendrick leans around me, bracketing me in. He stops for a second to kiss my shoulder and then opens the drawer on my side of the desk. He comes out with a dark-blue case that looks a bit like—Kendrick flicks them open to reveal a sleek pair of half-frame black metal glasses.

“Those aren’t mine.” I’ve never seen them before in my life.

“They are. I got two spares when you got the first pair that you keep trying to run over with your car.”

An exaggeration: I’ve never tried to run them over. It has merit, though. “Wait. Two? ” What the fuck? Where’d he find my prescription? I thought I’d hidden the papers in a great spot. “Where’s the other pair?”

“I’ll never tell you.”

“What do you think about the pictures ,” I repeat, dragging us back to our original conversation. This case is more important than how I accessorise.

Kendrick holds out the glasses, patiently waiting. If I don’t give in, we’re going to be locked in this stalemate for a while.

I shove them on my face and give him a look. “Well?”

He softens, and he traces the edge of the frame softly before nudging them further up my nose. “Perfect.”

The way he’s looking at me is intoxicating. “You like them?”

The pads of his fingers trail down my cheek, over my lips, and then back up to rest on the tip of my nose. “Yeah, Spence. I like them.”

I clear my throat, thickness clogging it. Well. Maybe they aren’t so bad, after all.

Kendrick drops his hand and moves back. “There’s a distinct difference.”

“In my face?” I don’t think glasses can alter a look that much. It’s still the same shape. Still my face. This isn’t like Superman, where I can slip on a pair, and suddenly, no one recognises me. Pretty sure there was some reason why in the comics, but I can’t remember, haven’t read them since I was a kid.

“No, in the pictures,” Kendrick explains.

I look back at them. One, a crime scene from a year and a half ago, and another from a day ago. Eerily similar in so many ways. The candles, the bath, a naked body suspended in water, their eyes closed as if merely sleeping.

The candles aren’t in precisely the same spot. There’s more water in the bath at the first crime scene—whether that’s relevant or not, I’m not sure—and the second victim has bruises around her throat and on her face that aren’t present on the first. One peaceful, one violent.

“Different killer, then?”

Kendrick shakes his head. “No. It’s too imperfect?”

“You might have to explain that one to me.” The desk rattles when I kick my legs up onto it, crossing my ankles and leaning sideways against Kendrick. He takes my weight, my head leaning back against his shoulder.

“If it were a copycat,” Kendrick says, stroking my hair, “then they’d take pains to make it perfect. They’d want it the same, to pay homage to the original killer. We can’t rule it out, but my gut says that it’s not what it seems.”

“Because it’s not exactly the same?”

“Anything that we do in life, it’s never the same twice, right? You can make a coffee every single day your entire life, and not one cup will be the same as another. There are subtle differences. Sometimes it’s about the weather, or the time, but sometimes it’s just about how much you put in, the coffee-to-milk ratio. A number of things. Even a serial killer who’s obsessed with killing a certain way, every kill, isn’t perfectly the same.”

“If it’s the same killer, then—”

“The guy in prison isn’t the original killer,” Kendrick finishes. “Only a theory, though.”

His theories are correct more than they’re not. I trust his instincts, so it looks like we’re looking for someone else. Someone clever enough to frame an innocent for his crimes. “Six gave us access to the emails and correspondence at the real estate agency Veronica worked for. Let’s sift through those and see if anything jumps out at us.” I lift my hand, and Kendrick anticipates what I want, taking hold of it, tangling our fingers together. He absently plays with my ring finger, his calloused palm pressed to my own. “Maverick messaged me back, saying that the body is ready for us to look at whenever we want; he’ll be around the place until six-eleven tonight.”

Kendrick’s caresses pause, and a little growl erupts from my chest. He starts back up again without comment and says, “That’s oddly specific.”

“That’s Maverick.”

“We need to ask the neighbour that found her a few questions as well, and the two cops that were called to the scene.”

We should write a list. Soon. He’s still gliding his fingers through my hair, and I want to enjoy it for a few minutes more. I like the feel of his hands on me. I like everything about him. No, that doesn’t adequately describe any of it. I love everything about him. He’s the other half of my soul. Just because my dick stays soft when he touches me doesn’t mean that’s any less true. There’s nothing platonic in the way I feel about him. I don’t need to want to have sex with him to validate my feelings or prove them.

“Spence?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t fall asleep.”

My lips twitch into a lazy smile, eyes staying closed. They’re too heavy to open right now. Call back in five to ten business days. “I’m not falling asleep,” I mumble. So what if I am? He’s comfortable, and he’s stroking my hair. I’m only human, and he better not stop.

He indulges me for a few minutes, an arm sliding around me to keep me secure. Fuck, he’s so snuggly and warm. A quick nap couldn’t hurt, right?

Unfortunately, he eventually coaxes me up and out of my seat. I stretch with a groan crossed with a growl. How dare he disturb me?

“We’ll stop by the funeral home, and then we’ll pick up some lunch before we come back here and sift through the emails.”

It’s a solid plan. I love everything about the plan, except for the part where we have to leave and go places, and where I’m not getting cuddles. I’m not in the mood today. I want to drag him home, lie with him on the couch, and eat the rest of our cold leftover pizza together. Do we have leftover pizza? I can’t be a hundred percent sure. Doesn’t matter. We can get pizza and have it fresh tonight and then have the leftovers tomorrow. We’ll order extra to make sure there are leftovers. Forward thinking; a beautiful skill. One I appreciate, in myself and in others.

He keeps sneaking glances at me as we grab what we need and head out. I can’t take much of that without bursting. “What?” I say, twisting to halt him in the hallway.

“Nothing.”

“Right. Try again.” I know I didn’t spill anything on my face, because we weren’t eating anything. Did he leave a mark? No, he wasn’t kissing my face. A mark from leaning on him? One in the shape of a dick? I tilt my head, cataloguing his white dress shirt and jacket. There isn’t anything that could make that shape. I don’t think . I was never very good at shadow puppets. How someone can make a frog from their fingers is beyond me.

Six stalks out of his office and stops short, blinking at me. “Nice glasses,” he says, with a low whistle. “When’d you get those?”

Shit. Fuck . I turn an accusatory look at Kendrick. “You could have said something.”

“I like how you look in them,” he says unapologetically.

“Me too,” Six agrees. “You clean up nice, man.”

“Fuck both of you.” I’m only leaving them on because Kendrick likes them, and that’s it. I don’t need them. And they’re only for reading anyway. I don’t need them for driving. Or anything else. A pointless accessory. One that’s cosmetic only, and for Kendrick’s pleasure.

“I’m driving,” I throw over my shoulder.