Chapter 4
“I don’t care if there’s a coverup.”
Kit flipped through the red and gold binder.
He was alone for once, kind of. James was upstairs, working from his home office.
Kit sprawled on the plush living room carpet, flat on his belly, feet kicking.
The sleeves of his sweatshirt—the black one with the neon blue bats—were pushed up his forearms.
Most of his time recently had been spent with James, Darius, and Holden. Kit wasn’t used to being surrounded by people yet, but being alone was complicated. Too much space to breathe and think.
His phone sat next to the binder, the screen lighting up with occasional texts from Bishop.
Talking to Bishop was easier now that Bishop had rejected him. Again. There was an understanding between them, and Kit kind of liked having someone outside this messy web of relationships. Someone who still understood, who knew almost everything.
Kit: when are we taking a new case??? you can’t make me sort paperwork forever
Bishop: Who says I can’t?
Kit: you’re so mean :(
Probably an unfair question, since Kit was the reason Bishop’s last case ended so spectacularly weirdly.
Not that being abducted was Kit’s fault. Sure, getting kidnapped once seemed unfortunate, and more than twice seemed like a habit. But Kit’s unwise fondness for Holden was the reason Bishop couldn’t solve things any of the normal ways. Like legal justice or murder.
Murder was on Kit’s mind today, because Holden’s red and gold binder was full of it. The binder was very organized. Printed articles and scans of newsprint, glued to paper and carefully placed inside sleeve protectors. Normal people would have a spreadsheet, or a folder on their computer.
But physical copies might be more secure. Sometimes Kit forgot that not everyone’s phone was specially protected by their genius billionaire boyfriend.
There was something to be said about the physical record. Every time Kit turned a page, he imagined Holden turning that page before him. Like they were touching across time.
The glimpse into Holden’s mind was fascinating. He hadn’t written any of his own words, but Kit felt closer to Holden just by analyzing the choice of records. The neatness of the construction. Each article was firmly glued in place, without any sticky spots messing up the sleeve protectors.
But Holden hadn’t gotten out a ruler or anything when laying the pages out. Some were a little crooked. Some were a lot crooked. Some were just right.
The content varied. Court dates and arrest announcements and pleas for witness information. Kit skimmed most of the articles, wondering why Holden wanted him to look at this binder.
Then he noticed the date stamps. Combined with the locations. And a chill coursed through Kit’s veins.
His phone screen lit with another text from Bishop. Kit kept reading.
Every article in this binder concerned crimes in the greater San Corvo area. That included Vilton, of course. Technically a separate city, but nobody outside the county had heard of it. Most Vilton residents just said they were from outside San Corvo.
Arranged by case, then by date, beginning six years ago. Midway through the binder, the articles approached the date of Dad’s conviction.
Kit closed the binder, heart pounding. He didn’t want to look. He really didn’t.
But he needed to.
James was still upstairs, but he could come down at any time. Kit didn’t want to have a panic attack in front of him. So, he fled to one of the downstairs bathrooms. Perching on the squeaky-clean toilet lid, he cracked the binder open again.
Four pages later, Kit found what Holden wanted him to find. Kit counted his breaths, just like Bishop made him do on the kitchen floor. But it wasn’t necessary. Panic fell away, replaced with confusion when Kit flipped to the next page and found another, unrelated crime writeup.
Kit scrambled to make a call.
Holden picked up on the first ring. “What a pleasure to hear from you, darling.”
“Where’s the rest?” Kit said, tense. “That can’t be everything.”
Three short articles weren’t enough to encompass the worst year of Kit’s life.
Kit held the phone so tightly his hand hurt.
Holden’s breath echoed, too distant. “Was that him?”
Kit set the binder on the marble counter so he could hug himself. Stupid to give Holden so many details. The world was full of monsters, but how many fit the precise details Kit had given? The timing, the location, the victim profile.
He should have expected Holden to dig deeper. Holden wanted every piece of him.
“It’s the right name,” Kit whispered. “There just isn’t enough.”
“That’s what I thought.” Holden sounded calm. Maybe that was why Kit could talk to him. He needed someone with Holden’s unique range of emotions and priorities. “I wasn’t going to look. But I kept thinking about it, because I think about you all the time, and that’s part of you.”
Kit hugged himself tighter. “I wish it wasn’t.”
The bathroom echoed with silence, until Holden said, “Me too. The thing is, if everything happened like you said, I should have heard of your dad before. That victim count, the resemblances.”
“They said they would protect my privacy.”
“They never do that as well as they’re supposed to.” Holden didn’t sound regretful, just matter of fact. “This should have been a true crime sensation. But I had to think and think to remember someone who might fit. Even though this guy doesn’t really.”
Ice slowed Kit’s thoughts. A new, sinking horror. The red and blue tiled walls blurred. “I’m telling the truth.”
“I believe you,” Holden said quickly. But he would say anything to make Kit happy. Holden would swear the sky was green, the road was paved with caramel, the blood never felt good on his hands, if Kit asked.
“It happened,” Kit said urgently. “I’m not making it up.”
“I believe you,” Holden repeated, this time with an air of distress. His deep breath shivered in Kit’s ear. “Can you believe me?”
Kit rubbed his eyes until rainbows danced in the darkness. “Hell of an ask, considering everything.”
“Have I lied since the whole kidnapping thing?” Holden’s voice stayed soft. Tempting. “We shouldn’t be doing this over the phone.”
“Is Darius listening?”
“Nah, he’s out, I’m locked in the bedroom. I just want to hold you, and I can’t tell if I should stop talking when we’re on the phone.” There was a rustling, the creak of the mattress. “I’m not good enough at reading your voice yet.”
Kit shuddered. So fucking tempting. He wanted to be held. Crazy how he could be dating two guys, high-key flirting with a third, and still feel so fucking alone sometimes. Like the cold was part of him.
It was strangely, stupidly sweet that Holden didn’t want him upset. Low fucking bar for a normal person, but Holden wasn’t normal.
Neither was Kit. He didn’t want to talk about it, but he needed to know what Holden was thinking. “I’ll tell you if I need to stop. I’m okay right now.”
Holden sighed dramatically. “I’m not. You’re way too far away.” When Kit managed a weak laugh, Holden continued. “They got him for three counts of murder. That’s barely anything. I’ve killed three people, for fucks sake. I’ve only been doing this for like a semester.”
“They were only charging him with the easy ones.” Kit started pacing the small confines, every few steps moving from plush rug to cold tile. All of them should have been easy ones. Kit handed them the fucking laptop. “They wanted to make it easy. I don’t know. I was pretty checked out.”
“You were just a kid,” Holden said. He was giving an explanation, not the intense sympathy someone normal might give him.
That was exactly why Kit could only talk to Holden about this right now.
He needed someone who could be normal about the least normal shit.
“I don’t want to sound like a crazy conspiracy theorist. But I think there’s some sort of coverup. ”
Maybe. Probably not. Impossible. Likely.
Kit’s mind switched with each sharp turn. He stopped in front of the mirror and looked himself in the face.
How many kids died at Dad’s hands? How many big, bright eyes went wide with terror, before glassing over?
It didn’t matter how many articles there were. Whatever the reason, maybe it was better this way. Fewer sordid witnesses to this constellation of traumas.
“I don’t care if there’s a coverup,” Kit said. “Everything worked. I turned him in, the police and lawyer people did their thing, and now he’s rotting where he belongs.”
“Almost where he belongs,” Holden muttered darkly. “I’m going to keep thinking about this, I have to warn you.”
Kit looked away from his reflection. “As long as you don’t do anything, think as much as you want.”
Holden’s voice lowered into a purr. “I would rather think about you here, sprawled on the bed with me.”
“Me too,” Kit admitted. “I wish James didn’t live all the way out in the fucking suburbs.”
After Kit finally hung up, farewells extended with adoring compliments, he washed his face. The hand soap probably wasn’t good for his face—Kit wasn’t really sure how different soaps worked—but the yuzu and ginger smelled nice.
He liked his reflection better scrubbed dry with a towel, eyes red, hair messy, imperfect and alive.
Even better. James was probably due a break. He’d be happy to mess Kit up even more.
Sitting in his armchair, Darius pretended to read the news on his laptop. In actuality, he was fuming.
He hadn’t had a roommate since he moved out as a teenager. Not even during college. His mentor had sponsored his housing and tuition—she wanted him to owe her.
It had worked.
What mattered now was that Darius was unused to sharing space with another person. It would have been easier if Holden was chained up in the bathtub. Not sitting on the fucking sofa, eating kettle corn, playing on his phone.
The place felt too small. Like a fucking studio, instead of a spacious downtown apartment.
The real problem was the lack of problems. Holden hadn’t done anything wrong since he moved in. He had been perfectly cooperative, because cooperating was the only way he got to see Kit.
Darius wanted to shout at Holden for eating on the couch. But the truth was, he’d never had a rule about eating on the couch. He’d eaten leftover takeout on that same couch about two hours ago.
He’d even had to fish a dropped noodle from between the cushions. Holden hadn’t dropped anything. Darius shouldn’t be angry.
“What are you looking at?” Darius asked.
Holden set aside his empty bowl and sprawled out. His bare feet planted on the cushions. Another thing Darius didn’t have a rule against but needed to consider.
“Real estate listings,” Holden said, with that same calm tone he used for most conversations. “I think Kit wants us all to move in together.”
Darius exhaled. Maybe that was the problem. Darius was used to being the calm one in most situations. Spending too much time with Holden’s serene creepiness made Darius feel irrational in comparison.
“Does he, now?” Darius asked.
“Mm,” Holden replied, not looking up.
Darius counted to three. No, he was not about to tell Holden to ‘enunciate clearly, young man.’ Best not to answer at all, because Darius didn’t know what he wanted.
Living together was a risk. Anyone Darius cared about was a liability. Someday, someone would call in a final favor, and Darius couldn’t be sure who would pay that debt. No matter how much he prepared.
But living apart was a risk, too. Darius wanted to keep a closer eye on his brat.
Kit didn’t want anyone digging into his past, and Darius had said he trusted him. He just kept thinking about the red mark on Kit’s arm weeks ago. The occasional fingernail marks, too small to have been left by Darius or James.
And the steady, well-trained way Kit aimed a gun.