Chapter 9
Somewhere in his room, James’ phone rings.
James, however, isn’t amused, and can’t be bothered to get up. He squints in the watery sunlight, thoroughly insulted by the audacity of the sun to shine. In a fit of laziness, he’d left his blinds open last night. The consequences are dire.
His phone continues to ring.
At long last, James picks it up. “Go away.”
“I thought you would at least be happy to hear my voice,” Sirius pouts from the other line. “Especially because I’m being nice to you. Moony suggested you be flogged.”
“Why am I being flogged?”
Sirius sighs. “You’re late, Prongs. Have you seen the time? Checked a clock?”
Tragically, James hadn’t. He squints at his phone screen, and his stomach just…
Disappears.
“Fuck,” he breathes, it escaping him like a hiss of air. “Fuck, I’m late!”
“I know.”
“How did I not wake up? I set my alarm—” But now he isn’t so sure. James wracks his brain, trying to puzzle out the events of the previous night. All he can remember is meeting Reggie in the grocery store, chatting, and James sharing his thoughts about his case. Now, had it been smart? Possibly not. But James isn’t exactly in contact with someone to talk things out with, and Reggie had been right there…
“I’ll be right in,” says James. “I’m so sorry, tell Lily and Remus—”
“Already done,” Sirius replies, and James could kiss him through the phone. “I’ve got you a coffee and a donut, but they’re getting cold.”
“Pads, you are God’s gift.”
“Aren’t I?”
James hangs up and frantically tackles the aspect of clothes.
Regulus hadn’t slept.
He sits up in bed, paging through his latest novel bought in a half-priced book shop. A mystery novel, which just gets Barty going about irony, but Regulus isn’t fussed. He’s interested in what he’s interested in.
He steals a look at the clock. Almost eight. With a great, cat-like stretch, Regulus sets the book down and climbs out of bed. He approaches his desk to see what he has to work with for the day.
There are lists strung about, about all of the people James had so invitingly told him about. Each name has a separate list: likes, dislikes, work habits. The lists had been Regulus’ reason to stay up all night, besides the book. He figures that he should write down what he knows so he doesn’t forget it.
“You’re out of pistachios.”
Barty stands in his doorway, in a simple gray sweatshirt and pajamas bottoms, clutching a bowl. He pops a pistachio in his mouth and grins. His hair is mussed and his feet are bare, which no one but Regulus has ever seen.
“You mean we’re out of pistachios,” Regulus says, blandly. “You live here, too.”
“But you do the shopping this week.”
“Except that I did it yesterday.”
Barty yawns. “Ah, but that doesn’t count. That wasn’t shopping.”
“Then what was it? The circus?”
“You were flirting.”
Regulus raises one sculpted brow. Barty isn’t deterred.
“I know you’ve got your little pet project,” Barty continues, “hence the absolute mess you’ve made of your desk. Shall I get out the yarn and the bulletin board?”
“I needed to write it down.”
“All that’s to say, you were gathering information yesterday, not shopping.”
“Shockingly, I can multitask.”
Barty frowns. It tugs at his lips in a way that’s almost endearing. He ruins the effect by promptly eating a pistachio. “Did you at least get anything good?”
Regulus spreads his arms out, showing off the desk. “A good baseline.”
“Are you going to see him again soon?”
This gives Regulus pause. He props his chin on his hand, perusing his list entitled “Lily.” From what he’d gathered, James thinks she’s pretty. Perish the thought. “I don’t want to push it.”
“You don’t push, Reg. You—”
“If you say something moronic like ‘bend,’—”
“That is not what I was going to say.” The guilty look on Barty’s face tells him otherwise.
Regulus scoffs. He reaches for the Lily list and settles to read. He tries his damndest not to burn the thing.
“Do we have anything more on RAB?”
“Not much,” says Remus, sipping at his coffee. He makes a face. “This is yours, Padfoot. You put too much sugar in.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sirius protests. “I like black coffee, like my thoughts, like my name—”
Moony gives him the coffee.
“We put whatever we know in our chart,” Lily says, pointing her marker at the whiteboard. The photos of dead victims look straight to James’ soul. They brand him with something guilt, something like shame.
“Have you got something, James?” Remus asks, distractedly. “Any epiphanies?”
“Well, um.”
They all turn to look at him. James scratches the back of his neck, trying to remember what exactly Reggie had told him yesterday. In imparting the information giving James the most stress, his new friend had been forthcoming with advice.
Why would he stay in the same country twice? James had wondered aloud.
He’s been meticulous, hasn’t he? Reggie had replied, eyes glinting and bright. It must have been planned. Everything he does it planned.
And, of course, that makes sense.
James shares as much to the group, and Remus frowns. “I suppose.”
“I thought you said he was opportunistic,” Lily points out.
“It could go either way.”
“Could it?”
“Or don’t listen to me,” James says, quickly. “It was nothing. Just an idea.”
Sirius hums. He isn’t looking at them—instead, he’s looking at a photo of the most recent crime scene.
“Everyone,” he announces, in that Sirius Black way of his, “I have had an epiphany.”