Chapter 18
“Feel free to call HR.”
Kit sat ensconced in Bishop’s office chair, as Bishop stood by the scanner. The chair wasn’t as monstrously ergonomic as James’s, but still big enough for Kit to sit cross-legged on. Size did matter.
“What’s this for?” Kit asked, twirling the straw around his glass of soda. It was a thrillingly elaborate twisty straw, striped pink and lime green. Not Bishop’s usual style. Either James gave Bishop a pack as a stupid gift, or Bishop bought them with Kit in mind, as a very nice, not stupid gift.
Bishop sipped from his own plain mug of plain coffee. “It’s an apology.”
How thoughtful. Unnecessary, though. Kit’s complaints about scanning Holden’s murder archives were more decorative than sincere. A melodramatic way to fill the empty air of Bishop’s office.
Bishop set aside the latest finished notebook. It was labeled Fantasy Football League and contained newspaper clippings of several gruesome murders that seemed completely unrelated to fantasy football.
“How’s James?” Bishop asked.
Kit slurped loudly from the twisty straw. “Fine, more or less.”
“I haven’t heard much from him,” Bishop said, not even trying to disguise the leading question.
Kit was reluctant to follow that line of conversation. No shit, Kit was worried about James. But he didn’t want to spill James’s emotional business. Sharing other people’s secrets would be hypocritical as fuck.
“He’s been busy.” Kit braced one sock-covered foot on the edge of the desk. “How are you? I heard you closed the Wellington case.”
The redirect was obvious, but Bishop took one look at his wiggling toes and let him have it. “I’ve been fine.” Bishop smiled slightly, and echoed Kit. “More or less.”
Almost a joke, but not quite. The hint of disquiet piqued Kit’s interest.
“Something’s bothering you,” Kit said, setting his glass aside. “Is it the Wellingtons? Holden?”
Bishop moved Kit’s glass onto a coaster, helpfully out of range of Kit’s feet. “Something’s always bothering me.”
Ha, nice try. Kit was a master of deflection, and he recognized his own moves being used against him. So, he broke out another of his many skills—shameless pouting.
“Don’t make me interrogate you.” Kit batted his eyelashes. “My arms are too noodly to get you on the rack. What if I break a nail turning the screws?”
Bishop snorted. “Don’t be so down on yourself, kid. I believe in you.”
Kit just blinked, silent and pitiful.
Bishop only held out twenty seconds. “I got a call from Archie this morning.”
Kit straightened up, pitiful act falling away. Bishop’s ex-partner was the one who abused his power as a police officer—opening Bishop’s eyes to the entire department’s negligence.
Bishop rarely spoke of him. When he did, the incident felt firmly in the past. But six years wasn’t that long ago.
“What did he want?” Kit asked.
“To fuck with me.” Bishop shrugged. “He called my business number and said ‘hello,’ so I knew who he was. Then he hung up.”
“Wouldn’t you know it was from the prison?” Kit asked, then reconsidered. He’d never gotten a prison call before. Even if anyone had tried, he’d switched numbers too many times. “Does prison show up on caller ID?”
“It was a cell phone.” Bishop took another sip of coffee. Nervous gesture? Not typical of him. “He’s been there for six years. Plenty of time to accumulate friends and resources.”
The idea settled uneasily in Kit’s stomach. Dad had been in prison for about that long, too.
Kit didn’t want Dad to have friends or resources.
“I don’t like that,” Kit said, before his silence dragged on too long.
“Neither do I. With everything with James too, it feels like…” Bishop picked up his coffee. Set it down. “Never mind.”
Kit stretched for his soda. The twisty straw felt comfortingly frivolous. “What does it feel like?”
“Like all our pasts are coming back to haunt us,” Bishop said.
Ice rattled in Kit’s glass. The physiological reaction was quicker than Kit’s thoughts. He set the glass on the coaster, then shoved his trembling hands into his sweatshirt pocket.
“You’re so melodramatic,” Kit said, proud of his theatrical sigh, even as the office closed in around him.
But Bishop saw right through him. “And you’re panicking. Why?”
“I’m going through withdrawals,” Kit said easily. “I’m addicted. I haven’t been fucked in at least three hours.”
The deflection didn’t work this time. Maybe it hadn’t worked before, either.
“Someone hired Darius to kill you,” Bishop said, his tone quiet and serious. “I can’t find a case that matches what you told me about your father. And you’ve been asking some damn smart questions recently.”
Kit held his tongue. He wanted to escape, but he couldn’t even see the bars of the cage right now.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Bishop said, still quiet. “You can tell James or Darius instead, if that’s easier. But if your past has anything to do with the Rat Kings, the Viper, or any other faction, one of us needs to know.”
Tempting. So fucking tempting. Kit had been doing all this work being open and emotional and present. Spilling his secrets might blunt the knives that lived behind his ribs. Catharsis might give him wings.
But those wings might snap, dashing him against the concrete.
If he told James or Darius, they would tell Bishop. Even if they promised not to. Kit loved them. They loved him back. He refused to tarnish that love with his jagged, rusted memories.
“This is the last time I’ll ask,” Bishop said.
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Kit snapped, and swung to his feet.
To his surprise, Bishop kept silent as Kit texted Carla for an early ride, and remained silent as Kit searched the house for his shoes. Not another word passed between them as Kit gathered his things and stormed out the door.
He slumped on Bishop’s porch, shoulders crawling with the thought of Bishop peering through the windows. Or watching him on the security cameras. But he didn’t turn around. He just shoved his hands back in his sweatshirt, and beneath the baggy fabric, dug his knuckles into his thighs.
The pain was dull. Dissatisfying. Not as good as scratches, or the snap of a rubber band on his wrist. But the bruises would just look like fingerprints, if anyone saw them. The good kind of harm.
The worst part was that Kit couldn’t even blame Bishop for asking. Bishop was right. Kit should say something.
But he wouldn’t.
Holden prowled the perimeter of James’s home office, not trying to hide his inspection. Surely anything important was already concealed behind glossy cabinet doors. Maybe the sleek monstrosity of a bookshelf hid a secret chamber, filled with James’s darkest secrets.
Maybe everything important was already packed away.
Maybe it all lived inside James’s mind, deep in shadows as dark as Holden’s own.
Maybe it sat in the pile of books on the desk, where James watchfully reclined. His shirt bunched a certain way over his hip, and Holden instinctively hated that James was armed while he wasn’t.
Holden paused by a painting—a seascape, its frame set into the wall, lit from the edges. It feigned a glimpse of the world outside, but the office had no true windows. “It’s very inappropriate to bring the intern home, Mr. Zhou,” Holden said lightly. “Someone might get the wrong idea.”
“Feel free to call HR.” James’s voice was just as light, despite the dark circles under his eyes. “Tell them how I fuck my boyfriend in front of you, too.”
“Our boyfriend,” Holden said, just to see if James would twitch.
James didn’t oblige. He tapped a sleek, black laptop. “I have a project for you.”
Holden’s interest was already piqued the moment James declared they were working from his home office today. After so many little tests, it was time for a real task.
Holden didn’t want James’s approval, beyond the expedient truth that James’s approval made Kit more accessible.
Also, Kit was happier the better they got along.
Holden would gladly perform many more months of menial busy work.
James would be annoyed that Holden wasn’t annoyed, and Holden took satisfaction from that.
But fine. Part of Holden was curious about the next step, and how he could twist it to his advantage.
“This laptop includes mirrors of my parents’ social media accounts, plus basic annotation and analysis software.” James gestured to the books. “These are my father’s scrapbooks. I’ve already labeled most of the people within. There are four I can’t identify.”
‘Identify the final four’ sounded like the obvious assignment. But that was a task for Bishop’s cute little investigation business, or James’s own security resources.
Holden wasn’t an obvious collaborator.
“What’s the assignment?” Holden asked.
James appeared casual, but he watched Holden as carefully as Holden watched him. “Read everything and tell me what you think.”
Oh, that was deliciously vague. “Is there anything in particular I should look for?”
“If I knew what you should look for, I wouldn’t want you to look.”
Holden approached slowly. He knew he could be unnerving—he spent his childhood practicing how to look like a person instead of a cold, sharp blade. He didn’t bother masking now, but James didn’t tense until Holden traced the spines of the scrapbooks. Such a clear, involuntary reaction.
“Kit suggested this,” Holden said. “Even with his suggestion, I’m surprised you asked me.”
James grinned at that. “So am I.”
“If I find the wrong evidence, will you shoot me in the head?” Holden asked, more curious than concerned. The last person to offer revelations about James’s family didn’t end well.
James’s grin held. It looked more genuine now. “I already have plenty of reasons to shoot you in the head.”
People were funny. The more James talked about shooting Holden, the less likely he was to do it.
“When I’m done, I want to let Kit look over my notes,” Holden wouldn’t dream of making Kit do the tedious initial review. “Is that all right?”
“Of course.” James tilted his head. “Any particular reason?”
That should be obvious. Kit understood murderers.
“Kit understands people,” Holden said out loud, keeping Kit’s sharp, fragile secrets close.
“Kit was right,” James said eventually. “I need new eyes on this. My perspective is too…”
Holden waited.
Not because he was too polite to finish James’s trailing sentence, but because he didn’t know what the end would be. Biased? Angry? Grieving?
“Emotional,” James concluded. More messy vagueness. “I have another project. Can you keep a secret?”
Holden’s interest was piqued yet again. Today was a reward for all the previous tedium of this hostage-coded internship. If James was telling Holden about a secret project instead of Bishop or Darius, there had to be a good reason.
Or a bad reason.
“Depends,” Holden answered. He liked to be clear about his loyalties. Or rather, loyalty, singular. “Does that include keeping it from Kit?”
“For his own protection,” James said, watching Holden like this was a test.
Or maybe that glare was just the sleep deprivation. The shadows under his eyes were dark.
Holden cocked his head, considering. Ethical judgements required more careful thought when they were about someone important.
“I would keep a secret for Kit’s protection,” Holden said. “But my assessment of whether a secret would protect him might differ from yours, and I’m not willing to guarantee silence in advance.”
“Thanks,” James said, with such cheerfulness that it took Holden aback. “I appreciate the honesty.”
God fucking damn it. Anger flashed through Holden, and he stepped back because the other option was punching James in the face. Which James clearly knew, because he laughed. Fucking asshole.
The smart move would be to promise secrecy, then decide whether to tell Kit anyway. Because Holden didn’t care about promises made to other people.
He didn’t want to be part of this group, building connections with Kit’s other boyfriends. James was a threat. A grudging ally. Not a friend.
“I can work with that,” James continued. “I’ll explain the project, and you decide whether I tell Kit.”
“Deal,” Holden said.
So, James explained the project, while Holden listened.
And there was no fucking reason not to tell Kit.