Chapter 3
a man who belonged in a cage
Bishop had to wait for ten minutes in the yellowing room. He was the only visitor. Nobody else sat in the metal chairs along the far wall, and nobody waited beyond the plexiglass.
Thankfully the guard seemed preoccupied. Not great from a personnel perspective. But Gordon was on duty last time Bishop visited too, and he wouldn’t stop talking.
The quiet was nice after meeting with the Wellingtons this morning. Bishop was still technically working their son’s case. Except instead of an investigation, it was now a coverup.
Bishop didn’t feel good about that. He couldn’t even pretend he didn’t have a choice. Turning Holden in would be easy. Killing him would be even easier.
Except Kit would be upset. That mattered more than it logically should.
So, Bishop was doing his best to be quietly, respectfully useless to the Wellingtons. He could guide them to the idea that not every case could be solved. Timothy—their criminal asshole of a son, not that they knew about that—wouldn’t want them to be stuck in their grief.
“Why is it so quiet today?” Bishop asked.
Gordon shrugged. “We don’t have visiting hours on Mondays.”
Either Bishop was getting special privileges, or someone else was. Exactly the kind of thing Bishop hated about law enforcement in San Corvo. No use complaining about it to Gordon.
A text from Kit buzzed in. Bishop’s first instinct was concern until he opened the perfectly ordinary message.
Well. Ordinary according to Kit’s current lifestyle.
Kit: can we meet up soon? i want to see if holden’s murder archives match any of your cases
Bishop: Holden’s WHAT?
Kit: lmao right? it’s not that weird tho
Kit: ok it’s pretty weird but not like BAD weird
Footsteps approached on the other side of the plexiglass, accompanied by jingling chains.
Bishop: I need to go, but I look forward to that explanation.
Bishop looked at his phone an extra moment, composing himself. He knew how to handle Kit’s seduction attempts and panic attacks. But Kit had been strangely casual, comfortable, since Bishop last turned him down. It left Bishop off-balance.
Or maybe Bishop was just more bothered about today’s visit than he wanted to admit. Better get it over with, so he could return to his normal day of covering up murders.
Bishop sat down in the central chair and put the corded phone to his ear. The man across the plexiglass barrier did the same.
“Hello, Archie,” Bishop said to his former partner.
The man behind the plexiglass was strange and familiar all at once. Archie looked much the same after five years inside. He always kept his hair short, and he always wore a grin on his blunt, square face. A graying bulldog of a man. The orange jumpsuit clashed with his ruddy complexion.
Bishop hadn’t expected a reunion before a future parole hearing, when Bishop might be summoned to repeat facts that shouldn’t need repeating.
Archie Calvin abused his badge to hurt civilians. Mostly women. He kept one woman in a temporary holding cell for eight hours, except the cell wasn’t at the station. It was in his basement.
Years from now, a judge might ask about remorse. Lessons learned. Here in the San Corvo Penitentiary visiting room, Bishop just saw a man who belonged in a cage.
The system worked, as Kit once put it. But it was harder than it should have been.
Sometimes Bishop wished the system hadn’t worked. Archie was the first man Bishop ever planned to kill. Maybe Bishop would sleep easier if he’d had the chance.
“You’re here early,” Archie said, still smiling. “Interrupted my afternoon tea party with the boys.”
Smiling, joking, same as ever.
Bishop wasn’t going to play into the false camaraderie. “Paula said you wanted to see me.”
Archie shrugged. “I don’t know your new number, so I figured I’d ask a friend.”
Paula was one of the few officers who kept in touch with Bishop. He wouldn’t call her a friend. She was just so addicted to station gossip that she was willing to talk to anyone, including both of SCPD’s recent disgraces. The felon and the whistleblower.
“Five minutes,” Bishop said. Any longer and his temper would snap.
Maybe Archie sensed that. He wasn’t as dumb as he used to act on the force. There was a brutish intelligence behind his broad smile. “Five minutes? You wanted to give me life, Matthew.”
Bishop sat silent, listening to the clock.
Archie’s face sharpened into a frown. “I don’t need five minutes. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”
“I’m doing just fine,” Bishop said, and it was mostly true.
“I can see that. Looks like you’re doing real good out there.” Archie leaned back, assessing. “I don’t like that at all.”
Archie set the phone down. He waved both manacled hands at a guard and stood.
Bishop lowered his own phone, trying to slow his pounding heart. He couldn’t shake the suspicion that this visit was a test.
And he had failed.
Three days later, Kit concentrated on pretending to load a handgun. Then he pretended to unload it. He followed Darius’s directions over and over without bullets. Having so many people around made him nervous. Even though he liked all of them. Maybe because he liked all of them.
The plan had been just Darius and Kit at the firing range. But James had wanted to go too. When Darius said somebody needed to babysit Holden, James appeared to acquiesce.
They shouldn’t have trusted James’s easy surrender. James managed to rent out Darius’s favorite firing range for the day. When Darius and Kit pulled up, James was already parked, sitting on the hood of his car.
He’d left Holden handcuffed in the backseat.
Now, after a glare from Kit, they were gathered in a large, private room. Darius still argued with James near the door—something about reliable communication when they were keeping hostages.
Holden, now without handcuffs, leaned against the table and watched Kit. They didn’t touch. Kit wasn’t ready, and Holden wasn’t an idiot. They were as close as they could get before James would yank them apart.
“I think James is starting to warm up to you,” Kit said, starting the pretend loading over again.
“You could have fooled me.” Holden didn’t sound bothered.
“He hasn’t killed you yet,” Kit pointed out.
“He doesn’t want to upset you.” Holden shrugged. “He didn’t need to handcuff me to come over here, though. I knew we were coming to see you, so I would have cooperated.”
Setting the gun down, Kit sighed. “You’re such a romantic.”
“I don’t know what that means anymore.” Holden tilted his head up. Not looking at Kit, but his awareness was still palpable. “That used to be a word for other people.”
“And now?” Kit asked, curious.
No, not curious. Needy. He wanted the sharp edges of Holden’s desire. The razor blades. The unexpected softness.
“Maybe I’ve always been a little romantic. A little enamored with death.” Holden grins. “I’ve found someone much cuter now.”
“Flatterer.” Kit glanced at Darius and James—who were still arguing, but both keeping one eye on Kit and Holden. “Anything else you want to say before they come over?”
He and Holden hadn’t had any time alone together since the whole kidnapping incident. Since Kit tore out his own bloody, secretive heart and placed it in Holden’s hands.
Since Holden returned the secret to Kit’s ribcage and sewed him back together with unconditional acceptance.
Kit expected Holden to reply with something else sappy. Some teasing promise to look forward to.
Instead, Holden lowered his voice. “Have you looked at my archives yet?”
Kit frowned. “Not yet.”
“Read the red and gold binder,” Holden said, even quieter. “See what’s there, and see what’s missing. Then talk to me.”
Instinctive fear thudded between Kit’s lungs. He couldn’t muster a reply before they were interrupted.
“All right!” James clapped. “Someone is standing too close to my boyfriend. Take three big steps back.”
Holden remained motionless, eyebrows lifted.
Kit snagged the empty gun and moved away from the table. He pointed the muzzle at the floor, because he was taught to treat every gun as if it was loaded. The grip was cool in his hand as he leaned up to kiss James.
“That works too,” James murmured, and kissed him back. Blatantly, he angled to give Holden a clear view.
Darius coughed. “Let’s get a move on, unless you want to rent this place overnight.”
“No thanks.” Kit extricated himself. “None of the furniture here looks nice enough to fuck on.” The room fell silent. Kit looked from one man to the next. “What?”
James just grinned. “I love you more every day.”
Heat crawled up Kit’s neck. Fuck. Was he ever going to get used to open declarations like that?
“Darius,” Kit said, almost a whine.
Darius took mercy on him. “You two, step back. No, all the way back, don’t crowd us. Kit, come up to the line.” He set a pair of headphones around Kit’s neck, and one around his own. “We don’t need these yet. First, you’re going to practice aiming with the gun unloaded. Point at the target.”
Kit took a deep breath and aimed at the battered target across the room. “What next?”
There was silence beside him. Long enough that Kit lowered the gun and turned—to see Darius frowning.
“Kit,” Darius said quietly, just for them. “Have you fired a gun before?”
Kit froze. He’d fucked up.
Darius shouldn’t have thought to ask. It should have seemed obvious Kit had never fired a gun.
Kit resisted the urge to adjust his grip badly. Trying to hide would be even more suspicious. “A few times, yeah. Ages ago.”
Moving behind him, Darius adjusted Kit’s posture with gentle touches to his shoulders and hips. “You’ve got good muscle memory. Who taught you?”
Kit needed a lie. Any lie. “It was a friend’s birthday party. His dad had more guns than common sense.”
“I probably don’t want to know how old you were.” Darius didn’t sound suspicious, but he was good at hiding too.
Then again… maybe Kit’s story wasn’t suspicious. It wasn’t that weird to have shot a gun before. Kit was just overthinking it, because he overthought everything about his life.
“It was very irresponsible.” Lowering the gun, Kit grinned. “Not like you. Can I play with some bullets now?”
Darius chuckled and raised his voice. “Sure, if James takes the murderer out for a walk.”
Holden laughed, surprising all of them with an emotional reaction to someone besides Kit. “The hypocrisy is charming. You’ve both killed way more people than me.”
“My murders are nothing like your murders,” James said serenely.
Darius shrugged. “I wouldn’t say nothing like.”
James rolled his eyes and escorted Holden from the room.
Following Darius’s directions again, Kit loaded the gun. He was careful to make a small mistake the first time. He got it right the second, third, and fourth times, because he wanted to act inexperienced, not stupid.
Kit didn’t learn to shoot at a birthday party. Dad taught him out in the wilderness, on camping trips. Kit thought it was normal at the time. Fun. A new hobby to share with Dad, just like fishing and inventing new campfire burritos.
The warnings were normal too. The sort of thing Dad always said. “You shouldn’t ever need this. All you need to do is buy time until I come for you. I’ll always come for you.”
Back then, the promise hadn’t sounded like a threat.
Dad had enemies from his old life. He left that life behind because Kit was the best thing that ever happened to him. He wanted to give Kit his full attention.
Kit used to like hearing that. He felt special.
Shoving those thoughts back, Kit slid the headphones over his ears. He followed Darius’s directions and let Darius readjust his posture. Then he fired. The bullet hit two inches wide of the target’s outer edge.
Exactly where he aimed it.