“Are you sure?” Darius asked, hands on the tarp.
Kit glared from where he knelt on the tiles. The corners of his eyes were especially red in the harsh bathroom light.
They were in the bathroom attached to Darius’s bedroom on the first floor. Spacious but still cramped with three men and a body. Bishop stood by the door, watching over everything.
“I have to ask,” Darius said, meeting Kit’s glare. “Unless I can trust you to say when you aren’t sure.”
Kit pursed his lips, then slumped in acquiescence. They were both remembering the proof of death photos. “Seeing him won’t change my levels of ‘okay’ tonight. I need to know if I recognize him.”
Good enough. Darius flipped down the edge of the tarp, revealing the dead man formerly known as Mr. Tweed.
The round glasses were gone, and the gray-blond hair was cropped shorter. His creased face softened in death. The hole in his temple seemed like an endless abyss, torn edges crusting with blood.
Mr. Tweed must have caught Holden following him that day at SCU. The pervert act was just to throw Holden off.
Kit stared at the body, and Darius stared at Kit.
Already Kit was gathering himself together. Stubbornness tightened his pale face. Darius half admired and half hated Kit’s resilience. The boy sure fucking needed it, but he shouldn’t have to.
“I don’t know him,” Kit said at last. “He’s still one of Dad’s.”
“What makes you say that?” Bishop asked.
“The timing.” Kit stood. “Mr. Tweed here has been stalking us for months, apparently. But he only makes a move the day Dad breaks out of jail.”
Kit leaned against the counter, angled appealingly. If not for the witnesses, living and dead, Darius would drag Kit’s jeans down to expose another inch of sharp hip bone. He would trace ticklish flesh until giggles turned into breathy moans.
A nicer man might shy from those thoughts in these circumstances. Darius welcomed them. A lifeline of normalcy and connection. Whatever secrets they hid or exposed, Kit was his. He was Kit’s. They would get through this.
Casually, like scratching an itch, Kit touched his throat. Then he remembered his surroundings and planted both hands firmly on the counter’s edge. Darius’s clear attraction was perversely welcome, but Kit really shouldn’t lean into it.
Not when Mr. Tweed lay dead a few feet away.
Kit just liked the way Darius wanted him.
“Hell of a coincidence,” Darius agreed, covering Mr. Tweed’s face. “Assuming the timing was intentional, I don’t like the Viper or Archie knowing where we are. Should we relocate?”
He directed the question to Bishop, but Kit answered first. “No.”
“I agree,” Bishop said. “What’s your reasoning?”
Kit rubbed his shoulder. He’d answered on intuition, and now he had to backtrack mentally for the justifications.
“I shot him because I saw him,” Kit said eventually. “Either he wanted to be seen, or he was too incompetent to stay hidden. My guess is the second one, but either one means we were supposed to catch him.”
Memories crowded Kit’s head with strategy. Things he picked up not because Dad taught him, just by paying attention to what he thought was a normal childhood.
“Control the board and the players.” Kit nudged Mr. Tweed’s tarp-covered foot. “Holden got a clear look at this guy, so he was expendable. Dad’s on the run, and a lot has changed since heruled San Corvo. We’re at an advantage since we have a secure location. He wanted to flush us out.”
Bishop nodded. “Or flush you out.”
Kit loosened his aching hands from the granite edge. “Yeah. Probably.” His thoughts veered away from the logical conclusions. All that mattered was running and hiding and getting Dad before Dad got him first, because if Kit thought about what Dad wanted, he couldn’t function.
All the old obsessions, with a new need to settle scores. That part wasn’t an echo. Kit had never disobeyed Dad before betraying him.
He didn’t know what Dad’s anger might look like.
Darius straightened up. “We stay put and tighten the defenses for now. I still want to plan relocation routes.”
