“I’ll run a parallel investigation,” Bishop explained. “Talk to Timothy’s friends, chase down any leads that come up, the usual.”
“That sounds interesting,” Kit said. “But I’m not sure how I could help.”
“I started talking to Timothy’s friends last week, and it didn’t go well.” Bishop downed the rest of his beer. “They’re college kids who drink too much and hide illegal space heaters in their dorm rooms. The initial police interviews spooked them, and they’re not going to trust me.” Bishop pointed his empty beer bottle at Kit. “You, on the other hand.”
Kit leaned back in his chair. “I probably do drink too much, but I’ve never owned a space heater.”
A cabinet door slammed from the kitchen. James leaned against the doorway, eyes unreadable. “You want him to interrogate people? That’s a bit more hands-on than filing papers.”
“I want him to get me names,” Bishop said. “Find out who might know someone who knows someone who knows something, and then I’ll handle the interviews.”
“That’s bullshit,” James said, at the same moment Kit said, “Can I see the crime scene photos?”
Chills ran down Bishop’s spine at the look in Kit’s eyes. Blank, cold. Guarded, empty. Kit perched on the edge of his chair like a bird, talons clawed into the edge of a cliff, deciding whether to plummet.
“Show me,” Kit said quietly.
Bishop pulled the next set of photos from the folder and slid them towards Kit.
15
“Something broke you.”
Bishop couldn’t read Kit’s expression as he looked through the photos. The first victim, Victor, was staged as an overdose. There was a grim quiet to his photos—his roommate found him in bed, the blankets tangled in his no longer thrashing limbs.
The second victim, Timothy, was in a storage basement. Shirtless, his dead flesh carved in seemingly random patterns. The lighting was yellow, making the blood look more brown than red.
The third, Marco, was in his dorm room too. No roommate, so the unfortunate RA had been the one to find him. What remained of Marco was more blood than flesh. He had struggled, and his fingers were missing.
“The perpetrator is escalating,” Bishop said.
“Or experimenting.” Kit returned to the second set of photos. His face was too pale, but he kept his focus. “He doesn’t know what he likes yet.”
Bishop’s eyes lingered on Kit’s wrist. “Maybe.”
Kit looked up from the violence spread before him. “I’m in.”
“Kit,” James said sharply. They looked at each other in silent dialogue, until James relented visibly. Just for a moment before his arrogant smile came back on. James leaned over the tableand touched Kit’s chin, tilting his face up. “You’re supposed to negotiate, babe. Bishop’s asking you to work. You’re supposed to ask what he’s offering you in return.”
Bishop rolled his eyes. “I’ll pay him, of course.”
Kit perked up, jerking out of James’s grasp. “Like a job?”
“Sure,” Bishop said. “I’m guessing you’ll want me to pay you under the table.”
“Yeah, I can’t use my social,” Kit said casually. “This is cool, I’ve never had a job before. Unless you count walking my neighbors dogs when I was… What?”
There.
There was that frisson of vulnerability as Kit played his own words over in his head. He flinched and wouldn’t meet Bishop’s eyes.
A crack in Kit’s mask, and Bishop was hooked all over again. He had no chance of staying content to watch Kit play happy boyfriends with James.
He needed to dig his fingers into those cracks, shatter Kit open, and find the truth in his heart.
But Bishop didn’t have the right to make Kit a project. He didn’t have the right to Kit’s truth. So all he said was, “Then it’s about time you got your first job.”
Kit looked down and shuffled the photos into a neat stack.
