Still shaking, Kit moved with Bishop’s touch, until he bent over with his head between his knees. Bishop rubbed his back, slow circles burning through Kit’s unnatural cold. That touch was the only real thing in the room.
Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think about him.
“Focus on me, Kit.” Bishop’s hand moved up Kit’s spine, cupping the back of his skull in a firm, reassuring grip. Thenslowly moved down again. His presence was so steady as Kit trembled. “Let’s count down from ten. Can you repeat after me?”
Kit shook his head. His throat still didn’t work.
“Ten,” Bishop said anyway. He paused, waiting, but didn’t sound mad when Kit couldn’t repeat it. “Nine.”
Kit tried that time, but the word got stuck.
“Eight,” Bishop continued.
This time, Kit managed a pitiful whimper.
“That’s good,” Bishop said. “Seven.”
“Seven,” Kit whispered. Ice still gripped his lungs, but he mumbled the rest of the way down to zero with Bishop. And when they were done, Kit could breathe again.
As his shaking stopped, more little pains twinged through him. His ass hurt from sitting down too hard. And his hand… Kit sat up against Bishop’s side and turned over his right hand. A shallow cut stretched across the palm, and his left wrist was smeared with blood where he grabbed himself.
“Oops,” Kit said. He had a ridiculous, hysterical urge to laugh. But thankfully he was still too muted and cold for that.
“Stay right there,” Bishop said, standing up.
Kit’s heart skipped. He reached out—but stopped himself from grabbing Bishop’s leg with his bloody hand. “Where are you going?”
“Two steps to the left, to grab the first aid box under the sink,” Bishop answered.
“Oh. I guess that’s allowed.”
Kit sat still, mulling over excuses as Bishop cleaned and wrapped his hand in gauze. The antiseptic stung, but Bishop’s large hands were so careful. Kit wanted to focus on that, on the dizzying, dangerous sweetness of that touch.
But Bishop would have questions. Kit needed answers.
I’m just worried about James and Darius,Kit decided, as Bishop found a broom.Or something in the case interviews upset me. Timothy’s mom talking about him. That one was sad.
Bishop swept away the broken mug. Then he made Kit move a few feet over to check for more ceramic behind him. He didn’t make Kit get up, which was good. Kit wasn’t sure his knees worked yet.
Then Bishop sat on the floor again, this time in front of Kit. So close their feet nearly touched. And all of Kit’s excuses crumbled with Bishop’s next words:
“I saw what James texted you.”
31
the silence doesn’t work like it used to
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Kit must not have locked his phone before he started panicking. He hugged his knees tighter. “What James texted me is none of your fucking business.”
Too strident. Too defensive. Snapping like that was practically waving a red flag to attract Bishop’s questions. But Kit was still too panic-shattered to muster his usual shields.
Bishop wasn’t quite calm enough either. There was a hint of anger in his retort. “It’s my business when he gives you a panic attack on my kitchen floor.”
Wait, was Bishop blaming James for this? Kit couldn’t defend himself, but that wasn’t fair. “James didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not his fault.”
“He doesn’t know that word triggers you?” Bishop asked, his anger either gone or hidden.
Kit’s stomach twisted, but his voice barely shook. “I didn’t know either. Not this bad, anyway. It’s just the context.”
