“He’s been busy.” Kit braced one sock-covered foot on the edge of the desk. “How are you? I heard you closed the Wellington case.”
The redirect was obvious, but Bishop took one look at his wiggling toes and let him have it. “I’ve been fine.” Bishop smiled slightly, and echoed Kit. “More or less.”
Almost a joke, but not quite. The hint of disquiet piqued Kit’s interest.
“Something’s bothering you,” Kit said, setting his glass aside. “Is it the Wellingtons? Holden?”
Bishop moved Kit’s glass onto a coaster, helpfully out of range of Kit’s feet. “Something’s always bothering me.”
Ha, nice try. Kit was a master of deflection, and he recognized his own moves being used against him. So, he broke out another of his many skills—shameless pouting.
“Don’t make me interrogate you.” Kit batted his eyelashes. “My arms are too noodly to get you on the rack. What if I break a nail turning the screws?”
Bishop snorted. “Don’t be so down on yourself, kid. I believe in you.”
Kit just blinked, silent and pitiful.
Bishop only held out twenty seconds. “I got a call from Archie this morning.”
Kit straightened up, pitiful act falling away. Bishop’s ex-partner was the one who abused his power as a police officer—opening Bishop’s eyes to the entire department’s negligence.
Bishop rarely spoke of him. When he did, the incident felt firmly in the past. But six years wasn’t that long ago.
“What did he want?” Kit asked.
“To fuck with me.” Bishop shrugged. “He called my business number and said ‘hello,’ so I knew who he was. Then he hung up.”
“Wouldn’t you know it was from the prison?” Kit asked, then reconsidered. He’d never gotten a prison call before. Even if anyone had tried, he’d switched numbers too many times. “Does prison show up on caller ID?”
“It was a cell phone.” Bishop took another sip of coffee. Nervous gesture? Not typical of him. “He’s been there for six years. Plenty of time to accumulate friends and resources.”
The idea settled uneasily in Kit’s stomach. Dad had been in prison for about that long, too.
Kit didn’t want Dad to have friends or resources.
“I don’t like that,” Kit said, before his silence dragged on too long.
“Neither do I. With everything with James too, it feels like…” Bishop picked up his coffee. Set it down. “Never mind.”
Kit stretched for his soda. The twisty straw felt comfortingly frivolous. “What does it feel like?”
“Like all our pasts are coming back to haunt us,” Bishop said.
Ice rattled in Kit’s glass. The physiological reaction was quicker than Kit’s thoughts. He set the glass on the coaster, then shoved his trembling hands into his sweatshirt pocket.
“You’re so melodramatic,” Kit said, proud of his theatrical sigh, even as the office closed in around him.
But Bishop saw right through him. “And you’re panicking. Why?”
“I’m going through withdrawals,” Kit said easily. “I’m addicted. I haven’t been fucked in at least three hours.”
The deflection didn’t work this time. Maybe it hadn’t worked before, either.
“Someone hired Darius to kill you,” Bishop said, his tone quiet and serious. “I can’t find a case that matches what you told me about your father. And you’ve been asking some damn smart questions recently.”
Kit held his tongue. He wanted to escape, but he couldn’t even see the bars of the cage right now.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Bishop said, still quiet. “You can tell James or Darius instead, if that’s easier. But if your past has anything to do with the Rat Kings, the Viper, or any other faction, one of us needs to know.”
