Thornby
Pearson
Man in the red shirt
Jem looked over the list, frowning. “Pearson would never have talked, that sick fuck was just a customer. Thornby on the other hand…he might lead you to the man in the coat. Who is this man in the red shirt, though?”
Glasses crashed suddenly, and Jem looked up, glaring at the waitress whose tray fell from her hands. The young thing gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry, baby. I’m all over the place today.”
Jem gritted his teeth. “Do I look like a fucking baby to you?”
“N-no—”
“Get that shit cleaned and then get the fuck outta here with your baby talk. I’m your fucking boss, and if you’re gonna coo at me again like some drunk patron you can flirt for a tip, get the fuck out!”
The girl was near tears when she hurried from them.
Locke glanced at Jem, at the thick veins in his neck and tired eyes.
Perhaps the pub was a stupid place to visit him. He was in the middle of work, and he was stressed enough as it was, standing behind the bar barking out orders. Fucker was in a bad mood—had been in a bad mood for weeks. Locke didn’t question it, because it wasn’t his fucking business to pry, but he was aware of the date, knew it was the month of mourning for Jem.
Addison died in November.
Why the fuck had Jem invited him over tonight to run through this list?
Returning his attention to the wrinkled paper, Locke ran the tip of his finger over the fourth line. “He came down, and he was real sick with his fetishes. Not as hurtful as the others, but…I want him dead just the same. He had markings on his arms.”