“I won’t squeal,” Kit snapped. “Just let me…”
Go? Go where?
He could hardly go back to Uncle Ed’s place now. Fuck. This was the most insane hangover of his life.
“Fine,” Kit said. “Slumber party time. What happens next?”
Bishop moved behind him and unlocked the handcuff—only from his right wrist. His touch was gentle against Kit’s bruised skin, sending unexpected, ticklish mixed signals up Kit’s nerves. Gentle, but not kind. He kept the cuff on Kit’s left wrist, fastening the other cuff to the chair instead.
Bishop leaned down, his voice weirdly reassuring in Kit’s ear: “Next is breakfast. I’m starving, and I bet you are too. Do you prefer scrambled eggs or omelets?”
“Scrambled,” Kit replied reflexively, before the facts of the matter violently reasserted themselves in his brain. What was he doing, getting breakfast from a murderer? “Wait!”
Bishop paused on his route to the fridge—and Kit’s stomach twisted, yawning in hunger.
Okay, yeah. He was starving.
“Remember to wash your hands,” was all Kit ended up saying. He didn’t want blood in his scrambled eggs.
Bishop left Kit chained to the chair for an hour after breakfast, while he locked up every exit and the more sensitive areas of the house. He didn’t know what Kit would decide to do with the day’s revelations. Probably Kit didn’t know yet either. He’d been through quite the ordeal—at Bishop’s hands.
Sure enough, when Bishop finally uncuffed him and gave him free rein of the living room, Kit didn’t try to escape. He justcurled in a corner of the couch and fell asleep, like a little lost animal sheltering where it could.
This wasn’t the path Bishop wanted. He left the force toavoidharming civilians. If he was getting arrogant enough to make a mistake, maybe it would be better if Kit turned him in. Bishop had trashed his career for his principles before. May as well trash the rest of his life too.
Bishop had a lot left on his post-murder to-do list. But instead, he turned out the lights. Drew the curtains, shrouding the room in darkness. Settled himself in the armchair angled next to the couch. Close enough to touch Kit, if he wanted.
But he didn’t. He just listened to the kid’s faint breathing as he unlocked his phone and opened his messaging app. The last message from James waited unanswered.
James:lol a week??? I need an hour, tops, to clear everything. You just want to keep him for a week, don’t you???
James:You act all principled and righteous but you’re a sick fuck. How dare you take advantage of that sweet innocent boy??
James:So how is he? Sharing is caring, send pics
Bishop ignored the blatant insinuations.
Bishop:You’ll need three days to clear your shit, and the rest of the week to double-check my clients like we agreed. I’m taking the fall for this, and I’ll drive him to SCPD myself if he wants to sing, but I’m not taking my clients down with me.
The reply arrived almost instantaneously.
James:You’re so uptight lol. Don’t worry, I have it covered.
Bishop:Thank you.
He hesitated. Glanced again at Kit’s sleeping form, covered in shadows on the couch. The kid slept with his knees curled up tight, his hair falling over his face. His sweatshirt had fallen askew, baring the thin, pale lines of his shoulder and arm in the dim light.
Bishop pulled up another contact and sent a new message.
Bishop: If you’re free this week, could you run a search on someone named Kit Byron? Not 100% on the spelling.
The reply came quickly:Sure thing. New case?
Yes, Bishop replied, then set his phone down.
He hadn’t noticed at first, in the adrenaline of the crime scene. He chalked his intense fascination up to Kit’s big green eyes, that intoxicating blend of jaded vulnerability. Kit’s sharp beauty, and Bishop’s own self-flagellation for carelessly entangling him in this mess.
But after half a day’s observation, Bishop was certain this was more than fascination.
