The heat of Kit’s extra caramel mocha eased the last of his tension.
“So, what did you find out?” Bishop asked.
Kit curled his legs up on the seat. “Marco was dating a girl named Soraya.”
“SCPD has talked to Soraya already.” Bishop didn’t say it like he was dismissing Kit. Just matter-of-fact sharing information.
“Have they talked to Joyce Takahashi yet?” Kit asked, and Bishop shook his head. “Apparently Marco cheated on Soraya with her. Soraya didn’t know about it.”
Bishop set his coffee on the dash and tapped notes on his phone. “Anything else?”
“They were in Astronomy together. That’s all I have, sorry.”
“No, that’s a good start.” Bishop glanced up. “What’s your source on that?”
“Holden. I met him at the library last month and ran into him again today.” Kit chewed his lip. “I kind of ended up telling him I was working for you. Is that okay?”
Bishop nodded. He wasn’t mad—and Kit was unreasonably relieved he wasn’t mad. “That’s fine. The only reason we were keeping it quiet was so people would talk to you. This Holden was clearly willing to talk to you, whatever his reasons.”
That had been Kit’s reasoning too, but… “You make it sound so inappropriate,” Kit protested.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell James.”
“James doesn’t care.” Kit frowned, suddenly unsure. James was fine with him kissing Darius, but James knew Darius. How would James feel about sharing with a stranger? Not that Kit needed to worry about that. Kit wasn’t going to kiss Holden. Even if Holden was nice and normal and fun to talk to.
Because that was the problem. Holden was too normal. He’d never want to get tangled up with Kit’s fucked-up life.
23
Holden’s hands itched.
Holden leaned back on the bench, pretending to fiddle with his phone. Farther up the seaside trail, a young woman approached on his right.
Evening swept the shore trails with soft blue shadows. Cactuses and scrubby trees obscured the skyline. Not much cover, but there weren’t many people around. Eroded canyons sloped steeply between trails. A crevasse twenty yards behind Holden would be the perfect place to kill someone, as long as he could keep them quiet.
Holden had already stashed the acid, wire cutters, and garbage bags down there. He had his reasons for leaving his first three bodies to be found easily. Victor, Timothy, and Marco were Grade A Assholes, which Holden didn’t really care about—it would be hypocritical of him to think violent jerks deserved to die, after all. The guy Holden was taunting cared, though, so digging deeper into this case should keep him hooked.
But number four? Holden didn’t need attention now. He just needed catharsis.
This was one of countless plans Holden had been daydreaming about for years. Fantasizing about supplies, locations, methods. Setting out for the trails had felt organized. Planned. The impulse was spur of the moment, though. Heshould be in the library right now. He had a stats test the day after tomorrow.
The vigil fucked him up, though. He was just there to gloat about Marco’s death. Soak in the vicarious attention, so many hundreds of people gathering and mourning because of Holden. And okay, he was also there to get another look at that bastard detective.
He just hadn’t expected said bastard detective to bring Kit with him. Or for said bastard detective to keeptouchingandwatchingKit.
Sure, it was proof Holden was right. The detective cared about Kit—so taking Kit would be the perfect revenge. Bishop’s interest in Kit was the reason Holden noticed Kit in the first place.
That didn’t stop Holden’s furious jealousy. Two days later, the crazy pent-up energy was still driving him to distraction, and even playing with Marco’s fingerbones wasn’t fixing it.
Bishop took Holden’s first target from him. A guy Holden wouldn’t even care about if he hadn’t decided to kill him before Bishop killed him first. It was aggravating, infuriating, to see Bishop getting his grubby paws on Kit too.
Up the trail, the woman knelt to re-tie her running shoe. She had no idea the simple action was prolonging her life, just by a few moments.
Holden’s hands itched. Patience was a long-term necessity that chafed in the short term. Holden was in the perfect position. Racing to catch the woman now would give her time to scream. He wanted to text Kit. Maybe ask for a selfie. But he couldn’t even look at the blurry photo of Kit’s middle finger he got last time he asked, because he’d turned off his phone an hour ago.
The woman tying her shoe looked nothing like Kit. She was curvy, with bouncing red curly hair. Her athletic gear was all blue and pink floral spandex.
When Holden was younger, whenever he felt uncontrollably angry like this, he used to go running. Sprinting down streets and trails until he exhausted himself. The punching bag in his bedroom worked better, when his parents weren’t home to worry about the noise. Lacrosse practice, once he made the team in high school. Aching legs and sweat and painful gasping breaths were almost enough to exorcize his craving for violence.
