Kit scrolled past the first few sensationalized headlines in the search results and clicked into a less tabloid-looking article.Even without the breathless tabloid narration, the details were gruesome.
Celebrated Chinese-American businesswoman Evelyn Zhou (43) was murdered in her San Corvo residence Thursday night. Her husband, artist Patrick Zhou (42), and their daughters Crystal (17) and Iris (12) were also slain. Son James Zhou (14) survived the attack. Authorities are still seeking leads, according to San Corvo Police Department Chief…
There were no photos, but a vivid description of the crime scene spanned multiple rooms and the front yard. Kit lingered, nauseous, over the note that the police didn’t find fourteen-year-old James hiding in a closet until six hours after they arrived on the scene.
Biting his lip, Kit searched for more recent articles.
A year later.A vigil was held on the anniversary of…
Two years later.Authorities are still pursuing leads regarding…
Five years later.The surviving scion of the murdered Zhou family has announced an increased reward for any information leading to…
Seven years later.James Zhou will step into his late mother’s position, announced the San Corvo Security board of directors, following a tumultuous contest between…
Ten years later.A vigil was held on the anniversary of…
From beginning to end, the details remained unchanged. A family was slaughtered, and nobody knew who was responsible. Vigils were held. Authorities sought information.
James was the only one who changed. He grew up. He amassed power. He inherited his family’s legacy—and far, far more.
Kit’s hand tightened on his phone, and he stared at the stark white walls of the restaurant bathroom.
James’s family was murdered fourteen years ago. As far as Kit could tell, authorities had no more answers than they did the day of the massacre. James was twenty-eight now, according to the most recent article Kit found, which meant he had spent half his life without any information about his family’s murder.
Except for the information he gathered himself.
An old, strange pain surfaced in Kit’s lungs. An absence he rarely thought of, because it had been such an integral part of him for so many years.
Kit didn’t know what happened to his own mother. She was gone by the time he was two. He didn’t know her real name, and he only knew her face from photographs he saw much later.
If he knew—if it was anything like this—would he become a hunter like James?
Or would Kit just keep running, like the prey he’d always been?
“I don’t want a mess any more than you do,” James said to the man in front of him. His pistol’s weight was warm in his gloved palm, the muzzle pressed flush against his target’s temple. His other gloved hand held the man’s throat. “This shirt is new, and I have a date.”
The parking garage was dark and cavernous, expensive cars valet-parked next to storage closets and supply crates.
The man shuddered against James. “I’ll give you everything I can. Please. I don’t know as much as you think I know.”
“Of course, you just handle the insurance payouts,” James said soothingly. His intel said it wasn’t true, but the relief would cloud the man’s head. “How close can you get me to the top?”
“I’ve never even met the Rat King. I don’t know anyone who’s—oh. Fuck.”
Exhilaration thrummed through James’s veins. The Rat King. James hadn’t heard that name before. “Tell me something new,” James said, pushing his luck, though time was almost up. “I don’t want the Rat King. Give me another name, any name, and I won’t shoot. You’ll be back upstairs in time for dessert.”
James didn’t expect to get anything else, and this was already a very productive meeting. The Rat King was a new name to search for. Maybe someone was trying to fill the power vacuum left by the Viper’s absence.
But today’s target was a coward, apparently, and he had more to spill.
“Melissa Vespers,” the man said. “She tells me which claims to divert.”
“Thanks.” James let go of the man’s throat. Gun held steady, he backed away and waited.
The man crumpled to the concrete floor, writhing and choking on his own swelling throat.
James had told the truth about not shooting, but he lied about dessert. He’d already stuck the tiny, poisoned needle into the man’s neck.
