Bishop stared, clearly taken aback by the outburst, which felt—good. Kit felt good. Energized. Like waking up again. Better than digging his nails into his skin.
He took a deep breath, gearing up to shout something else. Anything. Probably ill-advised. But the front door opened.
“What the fuck is going on?” James put a hand on Kit’s shoulder. The weight was shockingly warm, grounding Kit in place. “Kit, go back inside. You’re not wearing shoes.” He looked at Bishop next. “You should head out.”
Kit stayed put instead, leaning into James’s heat.
An unreadable look flashed across Bishop’s face. “See you around,” he said, far too calm, and walked down the walkway.
“Wait, Bishop,” Kit called out—surprising all of them, including Kit himself.
Bishop paused and turned, half lit by the patio lights.
Kit swallowed. “I still want to help with the case.”
A slight grin crossed Bishop’s face. “I’ll call you.”
Hours later, after James rimmed Kit until he came twice, then fucked his face until he cried, they curled together on the couch. James asked, “Why do you want to help with Bishop’s case?”
Kit nestled closer against James’s chest, his cheek sticking to James’s bare skin. Dazed and fucked-out, zen, all the anxiety worked out of him. If Kit had known sex was this great for stress relief, he would have found himself a boyfriend ages ago.
Not that James was his boyfriend.
“I like the idea of helping people.” Kit closed his eyes. “Besides, I think I know exactly where to start.”
16
Holden
Holden only took Marco’s fingers because the asshole managed to scratch his arm. Desperation broke the skin through Holden’s long-sleeve shirt. There were all sorts of fibers and skin cell gunk under the fingernails of Marco’s right hand, and Holden hadn’t wanted to waste time cleaning that up. He was a murderer, not a manicurist.
Murderer. That word still shivered through him, too good to be true. He’d been thinking about this for so long. Dreaming and planning. Motivational mood boards in his mind.
Sometimes Holden forgot he had killed people. He would just be going about his day, taking notes in his forensics class or studying on the quad or stalking the laundry room for the one working dryer in the apartment building.
Then an overheard word or a flash of red or just afeelingwould remind him. Every time, Holden thought surely everyone around him would see his elation.
But he’d always been good at hiding his emotions. This delightful accomplishment was his alone.
If Holden wanted to keep living his dream, he couldn’t get caught. So, Marco’s fingernails had been a problem. The easiest solution was to cut his fingers off.
Holden had started with the forefinger on Marco’s right hand. The one Marco scratched him with. Getting the blade in through the second joint was difficult. It might have been easier doing all of them at once, getting more of a swing in there. Notes for later. But Holden managed. The middle finger was a little easier, and by the ring finger, he was really getting the hang of the small-scale dismemberment.
The pinkie was even easier, because Marco had passed out, so Holden didn’t have to worry about the zip ties coming loose.
He hadn’t been sure whether any of his DNA was under Marco’s right thumb, but he took that off too for good measure.
Then each finger on Marco’s left hand, because it was fun.
Now, sitting at a cute little outdoor cafe table, sipping his green tea boba, Holden was glad he’d taken Marco’s fingers. Not just for the practical concerns—though he’d been pretty proud of his improvisation in the moment. But after scraping off the flesh and boiling the finger bones clean, they made pretty good souvenirs. He kept most of them in a jar in his apartment’s crawl space, and sometimes—okay, a lot of the time—he carried a few with him.
Holden slouched in the rickety metal chair and slipped a hand into the pocket of his baggy jeans. Rolling the bones between his fingers gave him an indescribable sense of satisfaction. Nobody else at the mall knew what he was doing. The mother herding her children away from the candy store. The young couple arguing in front of the sunglasses store. The students and businesspeople vying for table space at every café. The other mother clearly resigned to taking her children to the candy store.
Fondling the fingerbones, Holden reflected that while they were nice to have, he probably wouldn’t repeat the act. He was still figuring out what he enjoyed, and apparently pre-mortemtorture wasn’t really his thing. That had been a surprise, because he’d fantasized about it for so long. But like with sex, some aspects of murder were more fun in fantasy than reality. The extra complications and cleanup weren’t worth the brief fun.
Holden had enjoyed Timothy the most so far. Carving up the body and reveling in his accomplishment was more fun without worrying about being interrupted by, well, Timothy.
Even if Holden wanted to try pre-mortem mutilation again, he wouldn’t take fingerbones next time. He didn’t want to have a signature or something gauche.
