chapter ten
The record player croons, soft and slow, filling the expanse of the room. Classical music. Regulus sits on a plush armchair, sharpening his knife to it. This music has always had a calming effect for him. It shakes every unbidden anxiety from his skin. He breathes it in.
A noise from his right distracts him. The man, tied up on the couch, with a gag in his mouth. He begs Regulus with his eyes and a few muffled screams. How boring.
Regulus straightens. He paces the carpet—red, lush, expensive—until he comes to a stop at the couch. He doesn’t look at the man, not a first. He looks above him, at the paintings adorning the walls. The stunning landscapes and fascinating colors framed in gilded gold. Regulus allows himself to smile.
“I always appreciated good art,” he says. His eyes haven’t left the wall, not yet. “There’s something ethereal about it, don’t you think? Creating something out of nothing? How godlike.” At long last, he looks the man in the eye. “Divine, even.”
Regulus spins the knife in his fingers. The silver glints in the low light. Outside, the night is cold and dark, unforgiving, and blissfully ignorant of the goings-on of the indoors. Here, the curtains are drawn. The main light in the ceiling is turned off, and the only light to illuminate their space is a few lamps on various end tables.
Regulus has always liked a little ambience.
“Unfortunately for you, Mr. Walton, I won’t be droning on about art for the extent of our time together.” Regulus watches the sweat drip down his face with revered glee. “You’ve displeased me. Greatly, I’m afraid. You’re a philanthropist, yes? A benefactor. I was led to believe you would be nicer than most rich men of your standing. Instead…”
Regulus touches the tip of his knife, barely grazing the skin. It pricks him just so. He doesn’t feel a thing. “Instead, you were just as bad as the rest of them. Even worse. Donating your money to instigators of child slavery? How unbecoming. Immoral.”
Mr. Walton looks, in a word, terrified. His face is dreadfully pale, leaning towards green, and he’s stopped trying to speak through his gag. Tears have started to gather in his eyes. Regulus smiles.
“We aren’t going to be drawing this out, don’t you worry,” he says, patiently. “It’ll be quick. Enjoyable for me. For you, I can’t say the same.”
He turns up his record player. The music grows in volume, filling his heart—or the space that it would occupy, if he had one.
Regulus kneels down on the carpet. Face to face with Mr. Walton, he gently takes out his gag.
The man gapes at him, breathless and horrified. “You don’t have to do this. I’ll take back the money, I’ll do whatever you want—”
“Oh, dear. What I want, Mr. Walton, is your head on a platter. Do you understand the conflict of interest?”
Regulus grins wide before he slits the man’s throat. Exercise has always been important to him.
Regulus is just stepping out of the shower when his phone goes off. The grin returns when he picks it up, one hand drying his hair.
5:45/ I need to see you
“Oh yes, you do,” Regulus mutters to himself. He sets off to find his best “casual, but not too casual” clothes. Only the best for his favorite detective, of course.
When he meets James, it’s to Regulus’ surprise that he’s waiting for him outside an apartment door. James had taken him to his house. Regulus can’t believe his luck.
“Hey,” James says, breathless, looking like hell. His hair is in disarray, flying in each direction. His red, worn hoodie is a bit too large for him, and his sweats have a scratched out logo on the side. He beckons for Regulus to come inside.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says over his shoulder. Regulus steps over a few blankets and dishes on the floor, scanning the cozily furnished apartment with a keen eye.
“You live here by yourself?” Regulus asks.
“With a couple roommates—don’t worry, they’re out. I figured you wouldn’t want to meet them.”
He figured right. Regulus watches him. Sweet, considerate James. Even in the height of anxiety, still thinking of others. James guides him to the couch, leather and comfortable. Small enough for them to sit close together.
Once they’re settled, Regulus faces him with concern. “What’s been bugging you?”
“This case. We had a meeting about it today, and it just…” James runs his hands through his hair, looking impossibly endearing. “We found out that this killer, he got another victim. A man at the cafe downtown. The one by the park we met at.”
“You told me, yes.”
“But here’s the thing—we figured out a pattern. My best mate, he comes running toward us saying he’s had an epiphany.”
Regulus raises a brow. “An epiphany?”
“I thought it was bullshit, too, but it makes sense. He said this killer, whether directly or indirectly, is getting back at these rich men with terrible morals.”
Regulus’ stomach drops. If he hadn’t been trained for this, hadn’t had it drilled into his brain, he would’ve panicked. Instead, he tilts his head to the side with polite interest. “Hm?”
“The little girl? A rich guy’s daughter. He was funding this campaign to reinstate kids working twenty-hour shifts, like back in the coal mining days. Another woman, a rich guy’s wife. He was in charge of this plan to ban women from becoming CEOs.”
“So he’s… a good guy?”
“We don’t know what’s going on anymore. Is it vigilantism? Does he have his own agenda?” James groans, a delightful sound, clutching a throw pillow to his chest. He blinks up at Regulus, dark eyes hopeful and pitying at the same time. “I’m all tied up, Reggie. Like my brain tangled itself in knots.”
Regulus looks at him for a long time. Taking in the line of his jaw, how the light highlights the bob of his throat. Selfishly, and knowing he shouldn’t, Regulus thinks back to the dead man on the couch.
“I’m going to do something they taught me in school,” he says. “It’s a bit unorthodox, but it should help you get your thoughts in order. Is that okay?”
James shrugs. “I need all the help I can get.”