I won’t give any of it up, for anything. I don’t care how selfish that makes me. Henry can set his sights on someone else. Anyone else.
Kendrick’s lips twitch, and he gestures for me to start walking. My hand automatically rests on his lower back, the second I fall into step beside him. More of the anger settles when he relaxes into it. Kendrick doesn’t let anyone else touch him. Not evenHenry.
The front door is already unlocked, so we head in. Hunter’s in the living area, along with two other men: Riley Sinclair, a homicide detective and Henry’s boss—I’m being haunted by that man today, it seems—as well as one of his detectives, Quinn Hughes, who happens to be one of Sebastian’s four boyfriends.
I share a glance with Kendrick, lingering on his hazel green. Looks like we’re both being haunted.
“Throwing a party in here?” I ask lightly, staying close to Kendrick. “Should have said something, I would have brought cake.” The words remind me that the warm cinnamon donuts I’d bought for us are going cold in the car. Probably already are. Motherfucker. They’re so much better warm.
And the coffee. Double motherfucker.
“I’m afraid you missed the party,” Hunter says.
“What’s going on, boss?” Kendrick asks. “If we’re on babysitting duty again, I quit.”
Quinn stifles a laugh by coughing and resting a fist against his lips. Subtle. It’s not as though it isn’t his fault we were on that duty to begin with. Jericho—Hunter’s brother, a teammate of ours and one of the men in that five-way relationship—has terrible fucking taste in men.
“Since the victim is already dead, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Hunter replies dryly.
That explains what the two detectives are doing here, but notus. “And we’re needed because…?” We don’t do regular cop work, and this sounds like it falls squarely in their jurisdiction.
“They want this one kept quiet, and for us to clean up the mess.”
Messesareour speciality. “Alright.” No need to ask who “we” is. Hunter’s bosses are well above my pay grade, and I’d rather not be involved. “Is this investigative, or do we have a target?” There are a lot of ways to clean up a mess. I like some of them more than others.
“Did you hear of the murder last year with Leah Anderson?”
“Who didn’t? It was all over the news.” And then some. The woman was a star on some soap opera drama TV show filmed locally in Sydney, and she was found dead, drowned in her bathtub, about a year and a half ago. Some creepy stalker scenario. They caught the guy within a few weeks of the murder, and as far as I know, he’s rotting in jail now, with no chance of seeing the outside for a long time. The show used it, incorporating the murder into a plot line, and the controversy over it meant hearing about it for way too long. I doubt there’s an Australian alive that doesn’t know about it in some capacity.
“Come with me,” Hunter says, gesturing with his head.
This time Kendrick follows behind me, his hand slipping under my sweater to rest on my back, with his thumb hooked in the belt loop of my jeans. It sears into me, and all I want to do is turn around and step into his arms. Rip off his jacket and shirt so I can feel the warmth of his chest.
Hunter takes us into a small bathroom. The standing bath is full, and candles are everywhere. Over the sink, lining the bath, on the floor, either side of the bathmat, like they’re directing traffic straight to the main event. Each wick is black from use, and the smell of burning wax lingers in the air. Not just for decoration, then. A chill runs up my spine, and Kendrick’s hand fists against my back. Oh, fuck no.
“Are you serious?” I ask, turning to face Hunter. “Isn’t he in jail?”
Hunter rests a hand on the back of his neck, lifting the side of his suit jacket. “He’s still sitting pretty in his cell. Riley checked for us after he got the call.”
Some kind of copycat killer, then. Fantastic. Killers are fucked up at the best of times, but a copycat? I have a visceral hate for them. If you’re gonna do something, at least try to be original about it. “Who’s the victim?”
“Her name is Veronica Ferguson. She’s a part-time actress, with a small, ongoing part on the same TV show as Anderson. She also works part-time at a real estate agency.”
“How convenient.” If it’s a copycat, pulling a victim from the same pool as the last is ballsy as fuck. “Why do they want it kept quiet?” I can hazard a guess, but I want to hear it.
Quinn is the one who answers, from behind us. “Because if they got the wrong guy, and the real killer is still out there, they don’t want to show the world their ass. Not until we know. Apparently, this is what you do?”
“It varies too much for me to be able to answer that with complete accuracy,” I say with a lopsided grin. Wouldn’t answereven if I could. Quinn might be privy to our world because he’s dating Jericho, but it doesn’t mean that we have to show all our cards. Especially not me. I don’t have a horse in his race.
“So what are we doing?” Kendrick asks, his thumb making circles on my back. “Figuring out if the killer is still out there or…?”
“There was enough information out there from the first one that we can’t rule out someone copying him,” Hunter says. “Some fan of his work, maybe.”
“What was the case like?” Fuck, that feels good. I want Kendrick to lift his hand higher, all the way up to my neck. Cover my back and envelop me. It’s hard to concentrate on what I’m saying when he’s this close. “Do any of you know?”
Riley shakes his head. “We had nothing to do with it. Whether it’s ironclad or flimsy isn’t something we’re aware of. It’s your job to work that out.” He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, his own suit pulling tight over his chest. Everyone is way too formally dressed for this kind of espionage. “You have an hour to look over the house before we get someone in here to clean up the candles and any other evidence of foul play.”
“What are they saying killed her?” Kendrick asks, surveying the room. “If they’re keeping it quiet, that means they’re not crying murder.”
