Page 87 of Ricochet

What is it with nosy people not respecting the privacy of artists and their work? It’s a fucking epidemic.

Of course, that’s not my biggest concern right now.

This is worse than when Stone saw my sketches of him. He’s seen the ones in this book too, but he also inspired half of them. Eric seeing them is bad. So fucking bad that I can’t find my voice to tell him to get the fuck out.

“I was looking for evidence,” Eric says like he’s answering an unspoken question. “Not sure if these would work, but it’s a start, isn’t it?”

Curiosity and apprehension are enough to push me to speak. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He looks up from the book, his eyes hollow, nearly every trace of the cool, carefree guy I’ve known gone. “Has Stone told you he killed my uncle?”

His words are like a puck to my chest. I would know after last weekend. Fortunately, I manage to stay upright this time even as all the air is punched from my lungs. My heart is like a caged animal, pounding its heavy paws against my ribs.

“Eric, I really don’t know what the hell you’re on about,” I tell him, shaking my head as though he’s lost his mind. “Why would you think that? Stone wouldn’t kill anyone.”

Hiding my own secrets has always been second nature to me. Protecting Stone’s secrets is even more important. But I can’t deny that having Eric standing here, thinking he knows the truth, while looking at recreations of his suspicions is sending me dangerously close to fight or flight.

“Have you seen him? Kill? Is that what these drawings are?”

When Eric takes a step toward me, I hold my ground. I may be in nothing but a towel, but I’ll still fight him if I need to.

“They’re just sketches. Morbid ones, yeah. Which is why they were under my pillow where people I thought I could trust wouldn’t stick their noses where they don’t belong.”

He frowns and tilts his head, studying me. “You trust a murderer over me?”

“He’s not a fucking murderer!”

My chest is heaving now, both from my rapid breathing and racing heart. At least I’m equally as pissed off as I am terrified right now, which is a good excuse for my reaction. I attempt to zero in on that anger, focus on the fact that Eric has completely invaded my privacy and is accusing my…boyfriend?…of murder. Also ignoring the fact it’s true.

“He is. Iknowhe is.” Eric closes my sketchbook and places it on the foot of my bed. “And I know you know it too. I just can’t figure out why you’re covering for him.”

“I’m not covering for him because there’s nothing to cover.”

Eric looks down at his feet. I can see his jaw working. For a moment, I think it’s rage. But when he peers back up at me, his eyes are glistening, and when he speaks, his voice wavers.

“My uncle was my hero. He was more like a father to me than my own father. My dad was constantly traveling for work, gone for weeks or months at a time. He and my mother always told me he was doing what was best for our family, doing what he had to to provide for us. He’s tried making up for lost time over the past few years, but it’s pointless. He wasn’t there when I needed him, when I was just a fucking kid who needed his dad. But my uncle was. Until he was murdered three years ago.”

By the time he’s finished, a stray tear is rolling down his flushed cheek.

Fuck.

Could it be true? Could Stone have killed his uncle?

Of course, it’s possible. But why haven’t I considered this before? Why haven’t I thought that Stone could be out there murdering good people who have loved ones who will miss them like Eric misses his uncle?

I guess I have thought about it.

I just haven’t cared until now.

And here’s the thing. I’m not a bad person. I mean,Idon’t think so. Sure, death calms me in a fucked up, twisted way. I’ve found comfort in something despicable and evil, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m those things. At least, I don’twantto be those things. That’s one reason I’ve never been able to consider killing someone myself. I have a fucking heart. And right now, it’s breaking a little bit for Eric.

“Look,” I start, taking a deep breath. “I’m really sorry about your uncle. I am. But Stone didn’t do it.”

Eric shakes his head and wipes away his tear. “I know he kills people, Callum. And as soon as I have proof that my uncle was one of them, I’m doing something with it.”

Before I can respond to that, Eric is walking away and out the door.

As if on autopilot, I move over to my dresser and put on a pair of pajama pants. I pick up all the pages that had fallen to the floor and stuff them back inside my sketchbook. None of the drawings of Stone would be obvious that they’re him to anyone but me and Stone himself. But since Eric already has his suspicions, it’s not difficult to make the connection.

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