Guilt.
“What did you tell them?” Kit demanded, struggling. Darius’s grip tightened, shoving his sleeve up awkwardly.
“Just that your asshole dad broke out of prison,” Holden said, nonchalant as ever. But he avoided eye contact. “It seemed relevant.”
Just a name and a face. But that would lead James, Darius, and Bishop to the truth. All the little kids who died in Kit’s place.The obsession that shaped Kit, without him even knowing until it was too late.
Darius’s hand hadn’t loosened, but Kit could hardly feel it. His own body was distant. Out of control. Like he was back in the Vilton police station, slowly realizing that once he shared something, it didn’t belong to him anymore.
Broken secrets couldn’t be glued back together.
“I trusted you,” Kit said faintly.
Holden finally looked up, his eyes red around the edges. “I’m still figuring out this whole love thing. But it doesn’t mean letting you hurt yourself. Those secrets are sharp, darling.”
James pressed forward, inescapable, and tipped Kit’s chin up. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Holden’s right. You aren’t running away from us that easy.”
Kit’s chest tightened. Everyone was too close. He was trapped. Not the good kind of trapped, arms bound, face shoved into the mattress, body adored beyond its limits.
“There’s no need to run,” Darius said calmly. “Whatever’s going on, we’ll handle it together.”
He let go of Kit and pushed James back. Sensing Kit needed space, because he was too observant, just like the rest of them. And Kit couldn’t go anywhere, because Bishop had the keys, and trying to outrun these guys would be humiliating.
Damn it. Kit did need space, but the consideration hurt too. Kit should never have allowed himself to be known.
“You don’t understand,” Kit managed. “I can’t be with anyone. It isn’t safe. I need to…”
Yet he had never truly survived on his own. Even when he was numb and broken, hiding, he relied on Dad’s connections. The fake ID from Smith. The spare room from Uncle Ed.
“You need to come inside,” Bishop said gently. He moved away, more directly between Kit and the driveway. “We’ll sit down, have a drink, talk…”
Bishop kept droning on with stupid reasonable things. Kit stopped listening, attention caught by something behind Bishop. Movement in the bushes, which were lit, but not as brightly as the garage.
A crouched figure, adjusting position.
Kit didn’t think. He just lunged forward, drew his gun, and fired.
37
“your panic attacks are sexy, too”
Cold metal seared Kit’s palms. He held the gun too tightly to aim again.
The figure collapsed into the bushes. Every shadow clawed forward, and every beam of yellow light slid sideways.
He shot someone.
“What the fuck,” someone shouted, and someone else shoved Kit into the garage. Behind the car Kit tried to escape in. A dusty plaster wall held Kit upright. Someone shoved Kit’s gun groundwards, which was wrong, because there might be more intruders, but Kit couldn’t muster the words to explain that.
He shot someone.
He didn’t even know who. They just weren’t supposed to be there.
“Either I missed the fucking alert or there wasn’t one,” someone muttered. James, that was James, tapping a panel that hadn’t been visible on the garage wall a minute ago. “Rest of the yard’s clear. Setting security to level Fuck This Shit.”
Low red lights flashed around the perimeter, then dimmed.
“I’ll check our friend,” Bishop said, which was good, Kit was recognizing people, but also bad, because Bishop was moving towards the figure in the bushes.
