Page 43 of Lovely Violent Things

My heart lurches to my throat. “Right, yes. Thank you. Has there been any progress?”

I get to the laptop and wake the screen, impatience clawing at my nerves as I wait for the Wi-Fi to connect—only to remember the power is out. “Shit,” I hiss.

“Is everything all right?”

“We’ve had storms here. There’s a power outage.” As I sling my wet hair over my shoulder, a low rumble of thunder sounds to further my claim. “I can check my phone email once we end the call.”

“I don’t want to get your hopes up,” he says. “I haven’t been able to get access to the juvi file, but what I was able to uncover might be of interest to you. There’s a buried incident report on the deceased father, Malcolm Locke. He was hospitalized right around the time the juvenile report was dated. It might have no bearing, but I felt it was worth mentioning for your own investigative purposes.” A lengthy silence fills the line before he says, “Even obtaining access to this information was difficult.”

The way he saysaccessmakes me believe the information wasn’t acquired legally.

“I truly appreciate your persistence on this matter,” I say.

“Sure. It’s not much, I should add. Apparently, the Locke family has enough money to keep their secrets buried and sealed tight.”

I huff a derisive breath. “I’m aware of that. I’ve been trying to contact Mrs. Locke for months. She lives outside the country, and won’t respond to any requests.”

“Mothers can be…challenging,” he says, as if speaking from experience. “I’ll keep working on Judge Carter to grant access to the file and keep you apprised. Good luck on your case.”

“Again, I appreciate it. Thank you, Mr. Wheeler,” I say, then end the call.

There’s a weighted moment where I stare at the phone screen, hesitant to open the email.

Over the course of the past six months, I’d formed firm opinions on the bad boy of academia. I can admit I was obsessed with proving him to be a killer, smugly hiding in plain sight, confident he’d never be caught as he mocked those he thought less intelligent. Which, when it comes to Kallum, happens to be everyone.

My thumb hovers over the paperclip attachment as I scan the lines of the email where one sentence stands out.

…patient suffered damage to the oculus…

I lower the phone and stare at the flickering flame of the candle, looking into the dark zone.

Once I open that file, I can never unknow this about Kallum. Right now, it’s a vague suggestion, a speculation.

I don’t have to ask the question of whether or not Kallum is capable of such an offense. As a teen, he was diagnosed with brief psychotic disorder with violent tendencies. The more terrifying question is: will knowing the truth change how I feel about him?

The answer whispers from the darkest recesses of my soul. Like fine parchment going up in flame, my resolve burns to ash.

I delete the email.

Rain raps against the window, the storm increasing in strength, and I feel the emptiness of the room swallow me.

Leaving my phone on the table, I step toward the door. I touch the broken chain, my chest aflame at the feel of his presence I can sense just on the other side of the wood. Some desperation coils my viscera in a tight knot, and I let the chain drop.

I give the chair a single glance as I pass it by, then blow out the candle.

The dark presses against my skin as I remove my clothes and slide between the cool sheets.

One trembling breath to fill my lungs, then I reach beneath the covers and touch the sigil on the inside of my thigh. I trace the curved lines of raised, damaged skin. The tender pain resounds like a summons across my body, my heart beating so fiercely in my chest I know he can feel it.

My eyes have barely closed with sleep when I hear the door creek open.

Breath caught in my lungs, I sense Kallum before I’m brave enough to open my eyes.

He’s the shadow creeping from the corner. The monster under my bed.

Cloaked by the dark, he stands at the threshold, his promise not to cross it there in the heated, defiant flare of his clashing eyes. The raw intensity in his steely expression pins me to the bed, his gaze a physical touch, like fire licking my flesh.

As a flash of lightning illuminates the room, my gaze roams the valleys and reliefs of his bare chest, mapping the dark ink covering his skin. The stag skull shaded in dramatic blackwork, the antlers branching up his shoulders and neck. My breath shallows as I trace the leanly carved definition of his strained muscles, made more apparent as he braces his palms on either side of the doorframe. A beautiful god barely restraining the demon within.

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