“Not that I’m aware of.”
“I think you’d know.”
“Comforting.”
“It just seems like something you’d be aware of. The craving. The burning in sunlight. No pores. Really shiny hair.”
No pores? “That’s very specific.”
He gives me a smile that makes my heart flutter uncomfortably. Rubbing my chest absently, I return to my computer. “Other than your opinion on my eating habits, did you need something?”
He leans over, careful not to touch my bare shoulder, and glances over my screen. The spreadsheet won’t make any sense to him. Even if he did, Roger’s secrets aren’t my responsibility to keep. “What are you doing?” Matthew asks again, like he’s forgotten he’s already asked me.
“Working,” I reply patiently.
He rests his cheek on my shoulder and… settles against me. I freeze, an unpleasant, cold shiver running down my spine. It turns into something warmer once the initial rejection passes. His skin is warm, soft. Still smooth-shaven despite the late hour.
“What, specifically, are you working on?” he says through a yawn.
I shouldn’t answer. He’s already in too deep and holds enough information for him to be a liability to us and a boon to others. He won’t be safer knowing less, but if he were caught, it would be over quicker once they realise he has nothing useful to give. We would never allow anyone to take him, or for him to get into that situation, but facts are facts, regardless. I answer truthfully anyway. “Looking for the location of Roger’s pet dog.”
“I assume you don’t mean an actual dog,” he murmurs sleepily.
“Roger would never allow a creature near him that sheds.”
“He sends actual real severed fingers to people, but he draws the line at dog hair?”
“Everyone has a limit.”
Matthew furrows his brows, like he’s trying to figure it out. He won’t. He doesn’t have anywhere close to the right mindset to understand a man like Roger Vickers. To understand any of us at that level. There’s something almost special about it. Something precious to put in a glass box and on a high shelf where no one can reach it.
“Do you know who it belongs to?”
I stop typing and turn to look at him properly. “Do you really want to know?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
He chews on his bottom lip. “Did—did they deserve it?”
Such an innocent, naïve question. “And would that make you feel better? What’s your criteria for ‘deserving’ it?”
He deflates, and I find myself sliding an arm around his waist, my bare hand teasing at the skin above his waistband. It tingles, bordering on uncomfortable. A closeness I’m not sure I’ll ever fully get used to. Exploring his chest, and touching him, was the closest I’ve ever been to another person. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I enjoyed the moment with him, but vulnerability isn’t something I enjoy.
I’d still like to repeat the experience. And more.
“I don’t know,” he eventually says.
“We haven’t found the owner, no.” It’s not an answer that gives any relief, and I won’t elaborate further. It’s unclear whether they’re dead or alive. If it was taken from a corpse, it was still fresh, but a person can survive without a finger.
“Are you still looking?”
“We have people on it.”
“Can’t you just use their fingerprint?”
I can’t help the chuckle at that question. “Life isn’t like all the cop shows you watch.”
