As Bishop pulled up to his driveway, he passed a middle-aged man sticking an Open House sign in a yard. The realtor’s wispy gray-blond hair flew up in the wind, and his baggy button-down shirt looked rumpled. Bishop resisted the urge to punch his steering wheel, unreasonably furious at the universe.
Was everyone fucking moving houses?
“You need to get your shit together,” Bishop muttered as he turned the car off. He pressed a button, and the garage door rumbled. “They’re not movingatyou.”
Yeah, he needed a new job. A new obsession. Something to keep him from fuming at the sight of a normal real estate agent.
Once inside, Bishop went upstairs to turn on a light. Then he crept back to the foyer window.
Standing at a discreet angle, he took a photo with his phone camera zoomed all the way in. Checked it once, then took itagain. That one worked—a photo of the Open House sign. He could look up the real estate agent’s phone and license numbers when he had a chance.
There was no such thing as too careful when strangers showed up in the neighborhood, Bishop thought as he moved to the kitchen. He needed some fucking caffeine.
And okay. Investigating random real estate agents sounded like an easy win. Bishop could resolve that quickly before moving on to something more difficult, like soothing his own jealous nerves. Learning more about the Rat Kings. Learning more about that warehouse James owned and whether the old Viper ties were going to bite them in the ass. Learning more about Holden’s parents. Learning more about what the fuck Kit was thinking moving in with Holden—
Bishop paused at his open cupboard, hand on the pastel ACAB mug. The one Bishop had almost used to get a subtle DNA sample from Kit.
A connection sizzled in his mind, like electricity arcing across space. The wires weren’t touching yet, but the spark could still travel between them.
Bishop set the mug down and shot off a quick text.
Bishop:Up for some torture tomorrow?
A minute passed. Bishop measured it out in precise amounts of water and coffee grounds. The machine hummed to life as Bishop’s phone buzzed.
Kit:see THAT sounds fun but i know you’re just talking about filing papers :(
Bishop:Digitizing files. We’re almost done with Holden’s murder archives.
Kit:filing papers. weirdly fascinating papers, but still filing, aka torture
Kit:which yes, i’m up. see u at… ??
Bishop:10 am?
Kit:i’ll try to be awake. i mean, perfect, a normal hour for normal people to be normal awake
Bishop’s lips twitched into a smile, before he remembered his plan.
Giving Kit one more chance to answer questions.
Complaints aside, Kit was happy about the plans for tomorrow. Hopefully he and Bishop could get back to normal, bonding over Holden’s murder archives and Bishop’s temperamental scanner. For now, though, Kit had to help Darius pack.
For a given value of help.
Not that Kit wanted to be lazy. It wasn’t his fault Darius was a professional assassin. Way too many of his belongings were of the Do Not Touch, Examine, or Breathe On variety. With a hefty side of You Don’t Want to Know.
Holden was at class, with Carla or someone staking out his building. James was probably at home, brooding over the same old family files that had ensnared him all month.
Kit tossed his phone onto Darius’s couch—then reconsidered. Setting it on the coffee table was much safer. Darius’s gray couch was the sort of plush that swallowed phones and remotes like quicksand.
Which was great when Kit flopped onto it, like right now. Settling into the cushions, he eyed Darius’s return from the hallway.
“Need help?” Kit asked.
Darius held the cardboard box like it weighed nothing. Knowing Darius’s strength, that could either mean the box was empty or it had a million pounds of stuff squeezed into it.
Give or take. Kit wasn’t great at estimating weight. Especially when Darius was walking around looking so distractingly casual.
