Confusion slowed James’s fist for an instant. Enough for Bishop to seize him by the shoulders and haul him back. More words James couldn’t understand—all right, that was a lie. He just didn’t want to understand words like stop, wait, listen, explain.
James whirled on Bishop, because he had plenty of rage to go around.
Bishop simply pointed a gun at James’s head.
Surprise more than fear held James in place. The dark metal was an anchor, stabilizing the firestorm until words started to make sense again.
“I want to hear Darius’s explanation,” Bishop said, in an infuriatingly reasonable voice. “If I don’t like it, you can punch him again.”
“This isn’t your jurisdiction,” James spat. “I’m not one of your cases.”
“You’re not. But I have a gun.” Bishop lowered his aim to James’s leg instead of his face, a more honest threat. “Darius. Talk.”
Darius wiped blood from his lip. Touched his nose and apparently found it unbroken. Pity. He was often quiet, but not like this. He should have fought back.
“She knew you were getting close,” Darius said, his voice low. “If I had waited, she would have gotten away and gotten us first.”
James’s anger flared. “She would have tried.”
“She would have succeeded,” Darius said, quiet but certain.
Bishop’s brow knit. “Who was she?”
But Darius continued answering James. “I didn’t know she was the Rat King. Not until I found Terry in my kitchen. I wouldn’t have kept that from you.”
Darius was a professional. Money over morals, a job was a job, don’t bring work home, don’t ask about his day at the office. He didn’t dwell on his kills the way Bishop did, the way James pretended not to. Darius was like Holden that way.
Justifying himself to James was new. James felt worse about it than the blood trickling down Darius’s jaw. The matching smear on his own fist.
“You found Terry’s body yesterday morning,” James said, struggling for calm. Because Bishop was right. Explanation first. Then more punching. “You kept it from me for twenty-four hours.”
“That’s why I let you punch me in the face.” Darius touched his nose again. “Felicity was better than me. My only advantage was surprise.”
“You knew her,” James said. He couldn’t bring himself to say the name.
“She was my mentor. The killer who made me.” Darius’s grin was sad. “Looks like we have that in common.”
All the air left James in a rush. He sat down hard on the arm of the couch. Mere feet from Felicity Carrow’s dead body.
The missing Rat King.
Nazaro Bradach was the businessman. If Felicity Carrow was the killer, there was a good chance she murdered the Zhou family herself. Was it her idea, or Nazario’s, or both?
“I have more questions,” Bishop said slowly, still aiming at James. “But we should talk in a safe location. James, can you hold it together while we relocate?”
James laughed. A thin, wrong laugh. “Not sure about that, B.”
“We have an appointment right here.” Darius lifted an unfamiliar phone. “I used Felicity’s phone to contact Nazario. He’ll be here in twenty minutes.” His smile stretched bright under the blood. “Come on, James. Did you think I wouldn’t leave any for you?”
Bishop settled against the wall as bones crunched across the room. Normally, a person would scream when someone did that to their hands. Nazario Bradach only made gurgling noises, because the first thing James had crushed was his trachea.
His battered body was chained to his dead co-conspirator’s kitchen table. James had tried the counter first, for easier cleanup, but securing cuffs there was more difficult. The cuffs had come from Darius’s supplies. Between the three of them, they had plenty of weaponry. But James had found tools in one of Felicity’s cabinets.
The kitchen was airy, bright, and seashell themed. Nazario’s blood was stark in comparison.
“Is he going to be okay?” Darius asked quietly, leaning next to Bishop.
“Eventually,” Bishop answered. “Maybe sooner than we think.”
