chapter eight
James rests his head on the desk. He breathes in, sharp, the air cutting into his lungs. There is a headache building in his temples. He is aware of every cut on his fingers, very uneven nail, every strand of hair that wouldn’t lie flat. His heart thumps right up against his ribs.
“Why him?”
The tasteful question passes his lips once again, for perhaps the hundredth time. James works at his bottom lip, the image of Kirk Sampson embedded in his mind, lying dead on the bathroom floor. Victimology had never been James’ strong suit; it was more of Remus’ area of expertise. Or, better yet, Lily’s.
Lily Evans herself leans her head on his shoulder. He can feel her warm breath against his cheek. Her heartbeat is slower than his. Of course, she isn’t hopped up on the caffeine he is.
“I think we should look at the way he’s posed,” Lily suggests. Her eyes are stuck on the crime scene photo. “The way RAB poses his victims was important in all the other times, wasn’t it? Like dancers? Dignified?”
“Our man Kirk was not,” Remus says.
“Not what?”
“Not dignified.” Remus shakes his head. His eyes are bloodshot, drooping low. “RAB had no respect for this man like he did the others. He doesn’t think he’s pure in the slightest.”
James raises his brows. They'd been over this too many times. “Then why choose him?”
Lily rakes her hands through her red, fiery hair hanging in a loose bun. She had opted for an outfit comprised of flannel pajama bottoms, an old grey hoodie that had once belonged to Remus, and battered Converse sneakers. Her eyes narrow at the man’s face. Tracing their way through the rest of him, like Lily could see right through. “His eyes are open.”
“And?”
“Were the other victims’ eyes open?”
Remus clicks through the photos. He nods. “Yeah, they were. Why’s he different?”
Lily leans in, like she could have sucked herself right into the photo. “His eyes are more expressive here. In these other ones, it’s not as pronounced, it’s dull, it’s—” She scans them all at once. Her eyes can’t possibly be taking them all in at once, James thinks. “I think he’s seen RAB before.”
“We already narrowed that one down,” Sirius cuts in. “Sorry to ruin your revelation, Lils, but that theory is disproven and discarded.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Why is he so afraid?”
“People are afraid when they’re a second away from death,” Remus says, frowning. “I hardly think it’s something we need to focus on.”
“I still think—”
“We’ll think of something,” James reassures her, squeezing her arm. He even smiles. He knows it falls flat immediately.
It’s a pathetic attempt at comfort, sure, but James could almost believe it.
It’s the next Thursday when James feels a buzz in his pocket.
3:24/ please tell me you’re the one at the supermarket i’ve been staring at.
He whirls at breakneck speed. His eyes scour every shelf, every rack, until he makes contact. Eye contact.
3:24/ that would be me
3:25/ thank the Lord.
James stops at the end of the aisle. He tilts his head. “Hello, Reggie.”
Reggie slides his cell phone into the back pocket of his jeans. Which of course, draws James’ line of sight to his jeans, and his legs, and, well. That is a whole other train of thought entirely.
He settles for a grin. “How’ve you been?”
Reggie shrugs. He has shopping basket swinging on his elbow. “Fairly good. I’ve been on holiday from grad school, so it’s great to not have the load of homework on my back.”
“Grad school? I thought you were done with the whole, you know, school thing.”
“I want to get my Master’s. And it’s much more impressive, don’t you think? It should get me more jobs.”
“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” James scratches the back of his neck. “What do you want to do?”
At this, Reggie smiles. His teeth are startlingly white and oh, the dimple makes a reappearance. “I want to be a therapist.”
“A therapist, you say? You want to listen to other people’s problems?”
“And fix them, I suppose. I like to help people.”
And it fits. James looks over the whole puzzle of him—smilelipsteeth—and sees it. Clearly. “I love it. You can start with me, yeah? Fix whatever I’ve got going on.”
Reggie appraises him with something close to consideration. “Is that so?”
“It is. Here, I’ll carry your basket, I’ve already got mine—”
And they go about shopping that way, James swinging both of their baskets on his arms with a pretty boy at his side. Reggie talks animatedly, gesticulating as he spoke, talking about his classes and his professors and the appeal of his major itself.
James has never seen someone so passionate about something academic, except Remus, or maybe Lily. He squints. “Is there math involved?”
“A bit. I don’t like the math bit.”
“Me neither. It’s why I chose police work—no math.”
“You’re a police officer?” Reggie raises his brows in interest. He reaches for a can of chicken soup and tips it into his basket.
“A police detective, really.”
“I do like that. Anything on your mind, Detective?”
For a moment, James considers not telling him. Something, deep in the crevices of his mind, nags at him. Tugs at him. James deems it unimportant.
“There’s this case that really fucks me up, to be honest,” he admits. “Can I—I don’t usually, but could I… tell you about it?”
Reggie inspects a loaf of bread. Apparently, he finds it suitable, because he places it in his basket. He shrugs. “If you like.”
And it is there, standing in a grocery store aisle, that James does.