Dad always told me not to trust cops I didn’t know. Maybe a few years earlier, I wouldn’t have said anything. I don’t really remember what I was thinking. Maybe I’d been feeling hunted for years already.
I took the laptop to the Vilton police station. They arrested Dad. There wasn’t a trial. He took a plea bargain, and I was happy about that. He was locked up safe, and I went to a foster family in Arizona.
I was an idiot. I didn’t realize how weird everything was. You all saw the news today. Holden had articles saved in his murder scrapbook.
They only charged Dad with three murders.
I gave them so much evidence. I saw so many photos.
Dad has a lot of friends. The sort of friends who could minimize his charges and keep his DNA out of the system. Bishop ran a familial search on my DNA and found nothing.
Yeah, you bastard, I knew.He texted me about it.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. I’m fine. I’m not fine. I have to do this anyway.
I’ve been trying not to think about this since Holden showed me the articles. Enough people outside the loop saw the evidence that they couldn’t just let him go. The wrong people might start digging. Or Dad just decided a prison vacation made sense. Maybe he wanted to get back into business.
He was retired all my life, but he always thought an old job might come knocking. He taught me what to do if strangers came to the house. Or even friends we didn’t expect. I was supposed to grab a gun and hide in the basement. There was a secret phone I could call for help. If anyone besides Dad found me downstairs, I was supposed to shoot them.
I knew some of his old employees. There was Smith. He made my fake ID, after I ran away from the foster home. I assume he got cold feet about helping me escape, and that’s why he ordered a hit on me.
There was Uncle Ed—that’s Ed Addersen, sorry. He let me crash at his place. I don’t know if he told Dad I was there. I didn’t let myself think about it. I had trouble caring about things back then.
I’m sure Dad knew either way. He’s hard to hide from.
Are those enough clues, Bishop?
Dad is the Viper. And he’s back.”
39
Supportive home life.
Kit broke off, empty of words and expectations. He couldn’t make eye contact with anyone, but the tension was clear anyway. Clenched fists and jaws. James sat stiff at the very edge of the couch, poised to lunge forward.
All of Kit’s bravery fled. If he could take all the words back, he would, but his braver and stupider self of five minutes ago had already done the damage. Throat dry, Kit retreated to the mini fridge. His fingers danced through the cold, considering a beer. Or seven.
Best not. He didn’t trust himself to stop at one tonight, and he needed what was left of his wits. Instead, he grabbed a diet soda. Except he probably didn’t need the caffeine either. Except he’d already grabbed it, and his hand wouldn’t unclench. So, he just held it and kicked the fridge closed and turned around, where everyone still waited. Tense and staring.
Kit twisted the cold can around. “I’m done. You can talk again.”
Bishop leaned forward in the armchair, with a carefully approachable air. “Do you have any information on Laird’s hideouts?”
“Seriously?” James snapped, bursting to his feet. “That’s your first question? Typical fucking practical—”
“James,” Darius growled in warning, but James had already cut himself off.
They all looked over as something bumped Kit’s legs from behind. Kit’s pulse skyrocketed, but it was just the mini fridge. He’d been walking backwards without realizing, reacting to James’s anger.
Not at him. Not at him. James wasn’t mad at Kit. That lash of burning gaze wasn’t for Kit.
James swallowed, breaking eye contact. “I need a minute,” he said tightly, and strode upstairs.
Kit wasn’t sure whether to feel hurt or relieved. Probably relieved, if he ever got his emotions back on track. Except just because Kit needed space didn’t mean James should be alone. “Maybe someone should follow him,” Kit said, tracing condensation.
Bishop and Darius traded glances.
“He’ll be okay,” Darius said, unconvincingly.
