Chapter Eighteen Maneater
Chapter eighteen
Maneater
Aaron woke a sweaty, disgusting mess.
Not in a good way. More reminiscent of the first few weeks when he’d been in foster care. When he’d used to cry all night. Howl. Wail . The man of the couple who’d taken him in used to beat him until he shut up. Aaron couldn’t remember the man’s name, only the sounds of his grunts as he struck Aaron’s face. The weight of his body on him as he pummelled him into submission. After that, he’d learned to cry silently. A survival skill. Eventually, though, the tears dried up, and he believed he’d never feel again.
Until last night, that was.
When Dr Kenneth Lyons, who now knew exactly who he was and where he came from, had held him and let him break.
He stirred, checking the other side of the bed. Kenny wasn’t there. Aaron’s heart sank, but Kenny’s clothes still littered the floor, and his pillow had the distinctive dip where his head had lain, the sheets beside him still warm.
Aaron smiled.
The toilet flushed and, through the gap in the bedroom door, Aaron saw him emerge from the bathroom, scratching the dark beard on his jaw. Aaron could still feel the remnants of that rough and rasping stubble on his skin. And how his wild, tousled, shoulder length hair tickled his face when he’d kissed him. But what had Aaron frozen, straining his neck to see over his shoulder, was Kenny’s body, bare except for boxers. He’d felt Kenny’s chest beneath his cheek last night, felt the dark hair scattered across his torso and the strength in his legs as they’d tangled together under the sheets. But now, seeing him like this, near-naked and exposed, Aaron couldn’t tear his eyes away. Kenny was exquisite. Every inch of him. Masculine and mature. Mysterious yet unguarded.
Aaron’s heart leapt.
Foolishly.
Kenny met his gaze through the gap and there was an all-consuming moment where the air turned electric. Aaron’s pulse hadn’t ever raced so fast and his dick throbbed in a perfect display of Pavlovian conditioning.
“Come downstairs when you’re ready,” Kenny said, then disappeared.
Aaron settled back under the duvet, his arousal mingling with the sudden emptiness in the bed beside him. He contemplated whether to take care of himself right there. Leave something behind for Kenny to find. He didn’t. He just lay there long enough for the dark thoughts to creep in and it did the trick of enabling his dick to wilt so he could get up, dress, find his way to the bathroom to wash, then trundle downstairs.
Kenny was in the kitchen, tangled hair in front of his face, glasses on, huddled over an open laptop on the counter, coffee machine gurgling behind him. Aaron had a sudden and stark realisation of how much he fancied the fuck out of him. Whatever persona he portrayed. When suited for work with glasses and his hair scraped back. Or when smart-casual with contacts in and his hair free flowing. And when he was like this, just out of bed in sweats, no top and bare feet. Aaron’s pulse raced as Kenny’s eyes tracked him taking up the usual stool at the breakfast bar.
“Paracetamol.” Kenny nodded to the pint of water and two pills laid out on the counter in front of him. “You want tea?”
“Sure.” Aaron swallowed the tablets, downing some water.
“Toast?”
“You have a thing about feeding me.”
“I’m making some for myself. It’s rude not to offer.”
“You ain’t lived my life.”
“No.” Kenny shoved two slices of bread into the toaster. “I haven’t.”
Kenny eased the tension lingering from the morning after the night before with his domesticity, and he made the tea, buttering the toast using real butter from a porcelain dish, none of that margarine crap straight out of a plastic box, slathering a generous smear of jam on top. He then pushed the toast across to Aaron without a word, not even to ask Aaron if he liked jam.
“You gonna see your mum today?” Aaron asked, biting into the toast and masking how the delightful sweetness tinged his tongue. “Cause, you know, I can fuck off whenever.”
“You’ll fuck off when I say you can.” Kenny’s growl was sharp enough for Aaron to choke on his toast.
“All right, daddy,” he coughed.
Kenny leaned back against the counter, coffee in hand, and Aaron felt threatened under that intense stare. Kenny was peeling back his layers again. He’d already dragged out Aaron’s darkest secrets, and it was obvious how dangerously attracted to him Aaron was. Beyond that, Aaron was empty.
It was probably the inappropriate and ill-timed daddy comment.
“I want you to keep seeing the uni counsellor,” Kenny said as Aaron polished off his toast and tea.
“Kinda have to.”
“Yeah. But you say nothing.”
“It’s a long fuck off hour when you sit there mute. Trust me, I’ve done it before. Are counsellors taught how to withstand awkward silences?”
“Yes.”
“Bollocks.”
“You can talk,” Kenny dropped his voice in warning. “But keep it surface-level. Don’t let him pull you in deeper than anger issues. It comes from having to protect what’s yours in care homes. Nothing more.”
Aaron licked the remnants of jam off his lips, watching Kenny carefully, waiting. He knew there was more coming.
“Then you come see me. Every week. One hour.”
Aaron smirked, cocking his head. “Might need more than that.” He winked, but Kenny sidestepped the innuendo as if he’d been waiting for it.
“We’ll start at the beginning. Work our way through.”
“You sure you want to open this can of worms?” Aaron tapped his temple. “They’re wriggly.”
“I can handle it.”
“Can you?”
Kenny’s phone rang, breaking the tension and he grabbed it, answering with a sharp, professional, “Dr Lyons.”
Aaron watched the ease with which Kenny shifted back into work-mode, his command over the moment palpable. After a brief conversation, Kenny ended the call, tucking his phone into his pocket.
“Do I need to fuck off now?” Aaron asked.
“Yes. Go back to your room. Get some sleep. And read Discovering Statistics Using SPSS for class on Monday.”
Aaron rolled his eyes. “Never off duty, eh?”
Kenny inhaled a sharp breath. “Let it be known, I was very much off duty last night.” He snapped his laptop shut. “I need a shower. Can you see yourself out?”
Aaron leaned back on the stool, eyes following Kenny’s every move. “Go lather yourself up, doc.”
Kenny hesitated, something unreadable glinting in his eyes. And Aaron thought he was going to frogmarch him out with the realisation he couldn’t leave Aaron alone in his house. And it took a long damn time but, in two quick strides, he slalomed around the counter, gripping the back of Aaron’s neck, and forcing him to spin on the stool to face him. With his fingertips hard and bruising, he pressed his lips to Aaron’s. Soft and yielding. Demanding and devastating.
When he pulled away, his voice was rough, barely a whisper. “That’s it. The last one.”
Aaron brushed his lips to Kenny’s, a temptation too far. “Liar.”
Kenny hovered where he was. So Aaron stole one more, chasing Kenny’s defiant tongue with his own.
Proving Kenny wrong.
* * * *
“Good party last night, was it?”
Kenny dropped into the passenger side of Jack’s VW Golf, then slammed the car door with a glare right at him.
Jack chuckled and started the engine. Kenny waved out of the passenger window at his mother’s care home. She had attacked the nurse coming to her aid last night, and they’d had to put her on lockdown. They needed Kenny’s permission to increase her meds. To let her sleep off the haunting dreams. He’d signed and sealed her fate for the next couple of days, then the call from Jack to ask him to attend this appointment had his head spinning. Thankfully, Jack had offered to collect him from here, so he didn’t have to rush back home to meet him.
“Thanks for coming along,” Jack said. “It makes more sense for you to be there.”
“Yeah. No problem. I’m glad you asked me.” Kenny clicked the seatbelt in. “Do you have a spare tie in here?”
“The glove box. Why? You think I need one?” Jack adjusted the collar on his fitted navy shirt. “Fraser said I looked more personable without one.”
“You do.” Kenny clicked open the glove box, rummaging through and found a pale blue silk tie. He held it up to the light. It would suit Jack far better with his colouring, but Kenny had on a checked navy and red gingham shirt, so at least it didn’t clash. “You’ll be fine. But she likes me in a tie.”
He put it on as Jack asked, “How’s your mum?”
Kenny looked away. “Not great.”
“I’m sorry. Did it interrupt a lazy Saturday in bed for you and Heather?”
Kenny smoothed down the tie. “We’ve not graduated to staying over yet.”
Jack took his eyes off the road to raise his eyebrows at him. “You’ve not slept with her?”
“I didn’t say that. I said, we’re not staying over at each other’s. She has a daughter. Teenager. Makes it difficult.” There was that, and there was the point that he hadn’t slept with Heather. Nor even stepped foot into her house as he was too busy sticking his tongue down his student’s throat instead.
He knew sexual deviancy. He wasn’t a deviant. What he had was a desire and an attraction too profound to shake. But it needed to stop. Aaron brought too much chaos into his life. He couldn’t function in chaos. It was why he kept his house so tidy. Because his mind was such a whirlwind of thoughts, he had to have the external ordered or he’d be dragged into anarchy.
“Fraser suggested we should go on a double date,” Jack’s voice floated over the unease as he sailed the car onto the lanes.
Kenny whipped to face him. “He did?”
“Yeah. Mentioned it when I got home in the late hours of last night. He knows you’re helping me with this case. How about it? Me and Fraser. You and Heather.”
Heather. Fucking hell. Heather. She was Kenny’s chance to have a life. A future. To have a smile like the one Jack had. He’d probably had breakfast in bed, made for him by his fiancé, and sent off this morning with a blowjob. Instead of waking up entwined with a beautiful mistake and the shame that came with it.
“This is him suggesting you shove your happiness in my face, is it?”
“Someone else suggested that.” Jack smiled. “C’mon. Might be nice. Fraser hasn’t got a social circle down here yet. Think he’s desperate for company.”
“Must be desperate.” Kenny studied Jack’s face as he navigated the roads out of town and onto the motorway. “You are aware he’s employing textbook behavioural positioning? An assertion tactic? Positioning himself as the primary figure in your life through a symbolic battle over me for superiority? He wants validation? To feel as if he’s won? I’m his opponent? And to look me in the eye while he does it?”
“If that means, he wants to size you up as competition? Then, yeah. Of course.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Of course.” Jack grinned, then laughed. “Oh, come on.” He slapped Kenny’s leg. “Makes sense to, y’know, move away from all the resentment and be…friends?”
Kenny glanced back out the passenger window. “I’m not sure we’re ready for that.”
“Me and you?”
“Me and Heather.”
Jack went quiet for a moment. Then, “You haven’t told her, have you?” No question. A statement. Of fact.
Kenny didn’t look at him, choosing to admire the sprawling field they drove past instead.
“Kenny?”
“No, Jack, I haven’t told her I used to fuck the Detective Inspector of Ryston Police.”
Jack tightened his hands on the wheel and Kenny felt instantly guilty. The snap came from his unease. He was keeping too much in. Not just from Jack. But from Heather. It was like he hadn’t learned. Strangely, the only person he was being fully honest with right then was Aaron.
Except for this, that was.
“I meant that you’re bi,” Jack said.
Kenny said nothing.
“Jesus, Kenny. You lecture me about being honest with Fraser, yet you’re the biggest fucking hypocrite.”
“I’m not engaged to Heather.” Feeble response. Really downright feeble.
“Why wouldn’t you tell her?”
“Why should I tell her? It has no bearing on us right now.”
“It’s a big fucking part of you. You’re hiding it. That’s not fair. To her. To you.”
“And when I think it’s justified to let her know that part, I will.”
“How about when your ex-boyfriend’s fiancé wants to go on a double date so he can dig up all the dirt on your old relationship?”
“And how does that make you feel?”
Jack looked at him. Glared at him. Jaw clenched. Then he breathed out a laugh. “Fuck you.” He slammed his head back on the headrest. “Can’t believe I still get riled up by you. I love Fraser.”
“I know you do. But you have unfinished business with me you can’t shake. And it’ll eat at you until you let Fraser know what it is I gave you that he isn’t. Then let him have the chance to step into that role, eliminating me altogether.”
Jack went quiet. Then, “I hate you sometimes.”
“I know. It’s warranted.” Kenny glanced back out of the window. “And, just for the record, just so you know, just once, I care deeply about you and hate myself for what happened.” He peered back to test the water. To see if Jack was ready to hear the rest. He was. “But for me, we’re over. I failed at being your boyfriend and I have no intention of trying again. And I will happily tell your fiancé that, so he doesn’t feel like he has to muscle in down the station with the pretence of handing out cupcakes, just so he can give me a death glare. Nor does he need to keep tabs on me by trying to create some fake friendship group.”
“Is there anyone you don’t psychoanalyse?”
Kenny snorted. “Myself.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” Jack waited a beat, then, soft, barely audible, he said, “I care about you, too.”
Kenny smiled, but his stomach twisted in knots. What would Jack say if he knew the danger Kenny was putting himself in? The risks he was taking? How he was, once again, becoming obsessed? But this time with a person. A man . One twenty years his junior and would rip out his heart and soul if given the chance.
Kenny couldn’t give Aaron that chance.
So he kept all that to himself and he and Jack merged into a semi-comfortable silence reminiscent of their days together chasing leads, sailing onto the motorway, with Kenny putting together his plans for what lay at the end of this drive.
“By the way,” Jack said after a few more miles between them and Ryston. “I should tell you…We’ll be picking up Aaron Jones today.”
Kenny shot back to face him. “What? Why ?”
“For questioning. We got access to Rahul’s phone. Guess who contacted him the week leading to his death? Asked him to meet him by the river?”
“It wasn’t Aaron.”
Jack looked at him.
“Jack, listen to me. You are wasting your time. I’ve already told you the killer will be midlife, at the very least. A seasoned, well-rehearsed killer. He isn’t a nineteen-year-old.”
“Aaron might not have committed the murder, but he could have lured the poor lad to it. We need to question him.”
Kenny shook his head, blood boiling. Jack had to be barking up the wrong tree. Had to. Because there was no way Kenny was fooling around with a fucking suspect . No way.
“You can observe, if you like?” Jack said, cutting into Kenny’s thoughts. “I did a PNC check. You were right. Couldn’t get anything pre-sixteen. But he pops up for violent incidents between sixteen and eighteen. Mostly with blokes. You know what that probably means.”
“You’re wrong.”
“About which part? That he’s more than likely in witness protection? If he is, they’d already know I searched him.”
“About him being involved in this.”
“How am I wrong, Kenny?” Jack tightened his grip on the wheel. “I’m following a lead. It’s there. In black and white. Aaron Jones contacted the deceased hours before he was killed. And he has a record. Like you fucking told us the killer would.”
“He said he put his number under Rahul’s door and he never responded. Did you find it?”
“Yes. That was found.”
“There you go.”
“There’s no telling when that number was pushed under the door. And, anyway, this wasn’t through his number. It was Instagram messaging.” Jack gave him a look. “Clever kid. Looks like he knows a thing or two about evading detection. Wonder what he’s being protected from.”
“You’re still wrong.”
“Then you’ll have great joy when you tell me ‘I told you so’, won’t you?”
“Not if someone else is killed while you’re questioning the wrong person.”
“Why are you so sure about this?”
“I’m fucking trained to be sure about this. It’s the very reason you lot call me in. Because I’ve spent the past two decades getting inside killers’ heads. Aaron isn’t a killer.”
At least Kenny fucking hoped not.
No . He wasn’t. Kenny was certain of it. He had flaws. Big, huge ones. And trauma. Deep-seated issues. But he wasn’t a killer .
“Speaking of killers…” Jack nudged his head toward the huge black gates of their final destination.
Well, hopefully not final final.
Ashbridge Women’s Correctional Facility loomed on the outskirts of a desolate moor. With its grey stone walls stained from the harsh winds and relentless rain that swept through the countryside, the building itself was a relic from the Victorian era. A towering fortress-like structure surrounded by rustic barbed wire fences and patrolled by watchtowers. Time stopped still here. And the walls meant to contain the chaos inside had long swallowed all, or indeed any, hope for its inmates.
Like one of the most prolific female serial killers of recent times.
Roisin Howell.
Aaron’s mother.
Kenny inhaled a fortifying breath as Jack liaised with the security at the welcome post, then drove through the gates to the car park. Kenny had been here a few times. Mostly immediately after Roisin and Frank’s incarceration, when he’d wanted to understand them. Research them. He’d written extensive academic materials on them both, mostly Roisin, which were now used to teach those coming up the ranks of profiling psychopathic killers. Roisin was still an enigma. She kept a lot behind a winning smile and a radiant personality. Whereas Kenny was over ninety-nine percent sure she was the criminal mastermind and orchestrating puppeteer of the entire Howell murder spree. Despite what she claimed to be the contrary. Exceptionally convincingly, too. Kenny had feared she’d convince the jury she was a battered woman, abused by her husband and oblivious to his deeds. It had been his testimony to her state of mind that had swayed the twelve to convict her. Otherwise, she might have got away with it.
A very dangerous woman.
A very dangerous woman, indeed.
They parked up, the previous arguments forgotten for favoured silence. He and Jack both knew what they were walking into and they shared their unrest in the quiet steps of their own headspace. After all the signing in at reception and extensive searches by the guards, they walked through the corridors, uniform and cold, paint peeling off the walls with graffiti etched into them by inmates long forgotten. The fluorescent lights above buzzed like an irritating fly circling overhead and, in the distance, the clomp of footsteps and occasional shout reverberated through the echo chamber.
Shown to a vacant interview room with nothing but a plastic table and four chairs, they were told to sit and wait. They did. Again, with no exchange of words. Both lost to their thoughts and drumming heartbeats until the rattling chains, clanging keys and shuffling flip flops along concrete shunted them to face the reality of why they were here.
Roisin Howell entered the room with grace and dignity, despite the handcuffs binding her wrists and the two butch prison guards. She was more like a queen walking among her subjects than a prisoner flanked by guards. Her grey tracksuit bottoms, baby-pink T-shirt, and bright yellow woollen cardigan, probably knitted by her own hands, made up the uniform of a woman attempting to depict herself as innocuous. But her feet, tucked into standard issue sliders, revealed newly painted toes, an attention to detail matching the tousled perfection of her once vibrant blonde hair, now slightly dulled with age. And, despite her wrinkles and the dark circles, she was still as dangerously attractive as she had been ten years ago.
And her vibrant blue eyes shone in just the same way Aaron’s did.
Piercing. Striking. Luring .
“Dr Lyons!” She smiled. Radiantly . Trying very hard to show a personable delight at their reunion, but the deadness behind those remarkable eyes had set in long ago.
“Roisin.” Kenny remained calm, though his heart thundered. Her gaze sliced through him, stripping him bare, exposing the dark thoughts he’d been trying to keep buried. The images of her son, his hands on him, the things he shouldn’t think about.
She lowered herself into the chair with a practiced elegance, holding up her cuffed hands in mock surrender.
“How am I supposed to crochet like this ?” She glanced between Jack and Kenny, voice syrupy sweet but with a sinister undercurrent. “You wouldn’t deny a woman her stress relief, would you? The doctors here have given me special dispensation on the grounds it calms my nerves. And I’ve had some rather upsetting news recently.”
Jack gave a nod to the guards. They reluctantly unlocked her cuffs, but left one wrist chained to the table. Roisin smiled in gratitude, or more victory, as she fished out a half finished crochet pattern and stitched.
Kenny had spent years dissecting minds like Roisin’s. A classic narcissistic sociopath, she had carefully curated layers of charm and deceit, masking her sadism underneath. Her need for control, her ability to play the victim while orchestrating the game, it was all too familiar, and as a psychologist, Kenny had to play along, guide the conversation with precision. Missteps would only harden her defences, making it impossible to get any useful information.
“Thank you for meeting with us, Mrs Howell,” Jack began, ever the professional, but to Kenny’s ears, too direct. Roisin would see through it. She thrived on subtlety, not force.
Unsurprisingly, Roisin ignored Jack entirely. Instead, her attention fixed on Kenny. “How are you, Dr Lyons?” Her voice was warm, deceptively motherly, but Kenny knew that tone. A refined trap.
“I’m well, Roisin.” He kept his tone neutral but engaging. “And you?”
“Oh, I’m just fine, sweetheart.” Her fingers never paused their intricate crochet work. It was a minor detail, but Kenny noted it. She needed to keep her hands busy. It wasn’t anxiety. No, for Roisin, the act of creating something extended her control, her ability to manipulate even the smallest of things into the shape she wanted. “I appreciate the tie, Dr Lyons. It brings out the darkness in your eyes.”
“Thank you.” Kenny gave a small smile to Jack.
Jack rolled his eyes and leaned forward as if authority would somehow penetrate the walls Roisin had built. “We’d like to talk to you about a recent incident. You might have some insight for our investigation.”
Kenny winced. Too direct again. Roisin thrived on indirect confrontation. She didn’t respond to being told what to do. She responded to power plays, ones where she could hold the upper hand.
But Roisin barely acknowledged Jack, her focus still on Kenny. “I read your book, The Criminal Mastermind: What Makes Women Kill ?” she said, tone light, teasing. “Quite fascinating. Sent chills down my spine.” She smiled, but those eyes remained untouched. “Had to ask for a nightlight.”
Her mention of the book was no accident. Kenny knew Roisin. She was bringing it up to remind him she had studied him, too. That she understood his work, and perhaps, on some level, understood him . A veiled challenge. She was testing how much control he had over the narrative.
“I’m glad you found the time to read it,” Kenny said, feeling the undercurrent between them building. “I imagine you’re quite the busy woman in here.”
Roisin’s laugh echoed through the room, too loud for the small space. “Oh, Dr Lyons. You know how to tease.” She ran her eyes up and down him appraisingly. “And might I say, you’ve aged very well. I like the rugged look. Quite…primal. Bet you have all those students getting on their knees for you.”
Kenny fought the urge to react, knowing her goal was to throw him off balance. She needed to feel like she was the one in control of this interaction, the one pulling the strings. He’d seen this behaviour in others. Deliberate flirtation to disrupt the professional space, to turn a psychological evaluation into a power play. She couldn’t know that the last person he’d had on their knees for him had been her son.
“Thank you,” Kenny said, ridding those images of a backroom club, of a beautiful man on his knees for him, and how that night had changed his entire life. Might have brought him right back here again. “You’re aging well too.”
Her smile widened, predatory. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Or at least as far as the guards will let you.” Her voice dipped lower, sultry. “I bet you don’t mind a few more involved, though. You’re not restricted to certain genitalia, are you, darling?”
Classic. Her ability to shift the conversation into more intimate spaces was a technique designed to make him uncomfortable, to test his boundaries. It was the same method she’d likely used on her victims, disarming them with warmth before sinking her claws in.
He redirected quickly, knowing they needed to get back on track. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Don’t lie to me, Dr Lyons. You’re not sorry. You hated him as much as I did.” Her hands moved faster, more erratically with their stitching. “He should’ve died years ago. Before all that unpleasantness . How many lives could’ve been spared? Including my own.”
Kenny stayed silent, observing her. This was an opening, a moment where her bitterness toward Frank could enable him to extract more information.
“You’re still upset.” He adopted a more empathetic tone. “Because he ruined your life. Because he wasn’t the perfect husband for you.”
The words might suggest he agreed with her continued appeal that she was a battered wife. That she’d not known the deviant nature of her husband. She was an abused woman. When, in reality, she hated how it was Frank who got them caught. His sloppiness. His imperfection .
Roisin’s eyes glinted, the faintest sign of recognition that she was being led. But she wasn’t ready to give up the control yet. “I’ve turned it all into a positive.” She lit up. “I have a degree now, Dr Lyons. You should be proud of me. I’ve turned to academia!”
“That’s wonderful to hear. Which discipline?” Kenny allowed her to feel in charge of this new line of conversation.
“Psychology.” She grinned. “I’ll be a head doctor like you one day.”
Perish the fucking thought. “That’s good. It might help you understand yourself better. Help you with the urges.”
And there it was. The shift in her eyes, a flash of something dark and primal. Roisin wasn’t finished with her old life. She had merely adapted, hidden it under layers of performance because of the inability to act on her desires.
Then, bold and brass, she asked, “How’s my son?”
Kenny’s heart slammed in his chest, though his face remained composed. There was no way she could know. No way at all . But something in her voice…it had him second-guessing.
“We don’t have access to that information, Mrs Howell,” Jack cut in, hoping not only to support Kenny but also pushing forward.
Roisin’s eyes never left Kenny’s. “How is he, Dr Lyons ?”
Kenny waited a beat, calculating his response. Roisin needed breadcrumbs, something to keep her talking. He had to ignore Jack’s eyes on him, and he placed a hand on Jack’s knee, undetected under the table, giving a gentle squeeze to say he’d got this. Trust him. Let him keep going.
“He’s doing well,” Kenny said, the words cautious. “He’s dealing with…issues, of course. But he’s healthy. Living his life.”
Roisin smiled again, softer this time. “Is he beautiful?”
Kenny’s stomach turned, but he answered. “Yes. He is.” That was the most truth spoken during this entire conversation. Roisin looked thoroughly enchanted.
“Does he still play piano? The way I taught him?”
“I believe he does. Yes.” Kenny desperately tried to shake the vision of Aaron at his mother’s piano, performing his rendition of the song Roisin had sung throughout her arrest, stating it was the only thing that would comfort her baby boy.
But that was difficult when Roisin started to hum Dream a Little Dream Of Me whilst tending to her crochet.
“I bet he’s left a trail of broken hearts.” She tsked. “Nasty little girls, trying to get his attention. But not my boy. My boy does what he’s told. What his mummy wants.” Her grin widened, chilling, staring straight at Kenny.
Kenny removed his hand from Jack’s knee beneath the table. Ignoring the challenge, he had to push her now, edge her into a place where she might reveal more than she intended. “Can I ask you a question, Roisin? One you might find uncomfortable?”
Roisin’s lips twitched, her hands never stopping their rhythmic stitching. “All your questions are uncomfortable, Dr Lyons.”
He offered a faint smile, placing his hands deliberately on the table, a subtle signal that he was anchoring the conversation. “I’m told that often.” His voice dropped lower, more intimate, a tactic to entice her in. “Do you believe Frank took his own life?”
Roisin stilled her crochet for a split second before resuming. “I hope he did.”
That was the first crack in her mask, and Kenny seized it. He needed to dig deeper, to see how far she would let him go before the truth snuck through. “But do you believe he would?” he asked, tone careful, measured, the way one might coax a confession without ever asking for one. “Or should we be looking into his death more closely?”
“He should have.”
Something about her phrasing caught Kenny’s attention, and he let the silence stretch, knowing it wouldn’t last. Roisin always broke first, unable to endure the weight of quiet. A habit born from her childhood, a twisted survival instinct forged during her time in the cult. Back then, silence had been her prison. One that followed her after her mother handed her over as a willing sacrifice. Systematic abuse taught her to keep quiet, to endure being gagged and bound, and, eventually, to inflict pain herself. She learned to smile through it, to adapt, to survive. Now, the darkness of those years clung to her like a second skin, reshaping her idea of normal. Just another pastime, she’d say, like crochet.
And so Kenny waited.
“When we exceed our uses, Dr Lyons, we should all lay down on our own swords. Allow the next in line to succeed where we failed.” Her voice was smooth, but the meaning was razor-sharp.
Jack nudged Kenny’s leg under the table. Kenny didn’t respond. He stayed fixed on Roisin. “Do you feel Frank had outlived his purpose?”
Roisin’s hands stopped moving. Her icy gaze launched up from her stitching, meeting Kenny’s with unnerving calm. “What purpose would that be, dear?”
Kenny tilted his head, reading her reaction. “Being a good husband to you.”
“Frank was evil, Dr Lyons.” Roisin’s focus remained on her crochet work. “A monster. I believe you referred to him as a psychopathic sexual deviant. I was married to that . No one saved me . No one thought about me in there. Locked up in that house for years, having to hear all those horrific things he did. And my rescuers put me in here .” She gestured to the prison. “Forgive me if I don’t shed a tear for a man who, as you say, failed miserably at being my husband.” She moved her hands again, flipping the crochet piece in her lap. “Oh, look, Dr Lyons!” She held up her work. On the front of the square, meticulously stitched, was a delicate rose vine and a slow, wide smile crept across her face, but it wasn’t warmth. It was predatory. “Do you like it?”
Kenny’s stomach twisted as he stared at the intricate pattern. She knows. “Are roses important to you, Roisin?”
“It is my name, Dr Lyons.” She cocked her head. “Are names important? What we call each other? What our mothers named us?”
“They can be. Are names important to you?”
“Why painstakingly pick a name if it means nothing? If someone is just going to scribble that name out and replace it with something meaningless?”
Kenny watched her closely. Was she referring to herself? Or to the son she named who now went by something else? Something meaningless to her. To him.
Not to Kenny.
“Did you know Kenneth stands for fire born? Good looking?” Roisin arched an eyebrow.
“Yes. I believe that is right.”
“Your mother must have known.”
“Known what?”
“That you were going to be a devilishly handsome man who rips out hearts.” She laid her eyes on Jack momentarily, before turning them back on him. “How many hearts have you broken, Dr Lyons? Enough to make your mother proud?”
Kenny remained still.
“A mother always knows.” Roisin yawned, as though the conversation bored her. “You’ll have to excuse me, Dr Lyons. I am getting old. It’s nap time.” She stood, her posture graceful despite the handcuffs clinking with her efforts to flee from the table. “Guard!”
The two guards uncuffed her wrists, and she turned her attention to Jack.
“Sorry I couldn’t be more help with your investigation, DI Bentley.” She dripped with condescension. “But we all have our limits. Maybe you should’ve stayed a police constable. Road traffic duty might’ve suited you better. Or perhaps a social worker? You did so enjoy ripping children from their mothers, as I recall.”
The words stung, and Jack stiffened, jaw clenched in restraint. But before he could respond, the guards led Roisin out, her delicate humming of Dream a Little Dream Of Me lingering behind her to echo through the corridors.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Kenny exhaled.
“Well, that was a waste of fucking time!” Jack scraped out his chair and stood.
“On the contrary. It was rather insightful.” Kenny quite enjoyed it. He wouldn’t say that out loud, though. Jack would think him repugnant, but it was more about the challenge. Roisin made him think on his toes. And he’d won . Because she left first. He’d made her uncomfortable . Taken the control away from her. The only thing she could control was her presence.
Jack gave him a look. “She gave us nothing.”
“She knows the killer. Rahul was a gift to her. One she very much appreciated. And she discarded Frank, probably with a click of her fingers. Either he did it himself, knowing she didn’t need him anymore, or she had him killed. He’s of no use to her anymore, so it’s of no bother. Because someone else is continuing her work.”
“How the fuck did you get all that out of what just happened?”
Kenny winked. “Read between the lines, Jack. There’s better narrative in there.”
Jack scrubbed a hand over his face. “Jesus. She is bona fide batshit fucking crazy.”
“That’s not the clinical term we like to use, DI Bentley.” Kenny tapped a pen on his lips. “Narcissistic sociopath with psychotic tendencies, diagnosed with ASBD, Anti-Social Behaviour Disorder. Likely stemming from severe trauma and a profound need to control her adult narrative, having had zero control over the horrors she endured as a child where torture and harm were part of everyday life.”
Jack gave him a look, one part disbelief, one part frustration. “Don’t make excuses for her.”
“They’re not excuses.” Kenny stood. “They’re reasons.”
Jack stared at him for a moment longer, then glanced down at the table where Roisin had left her crochet. “And what’s her reason for that?”
“It’s a gift, Jack. A fucking gift.”