2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

U nfortunately, because—fuck my life—by the time we finished dealing with the body it was too late at night to properly interrogate Felix. So, instead of gathering all the juicy murder details, I drove him home with explicit instructions to shower and clean under his nails.

He was wearing one of the backup shirts I kept in my trunk, as we'd taken the opportunity at the crematory to burn our clothing. I'd been nothing but level-headed. I'd known what to do every step of the way. Shown no remorse. And yet, Felix still looked at me like I was an angel and not a man who had killed enough people he knew how to properly clean up afterward.

"You're amazing, you know that?" Felix said, his stupid sunglasses pocketed once again. Without thinking, I reached out and yanked his damn hat off his head. His floppy blond waves fell free as he stared at me, confused.

"I hate this hat." I shook it at him, trying to emphasize my ire. "We should have burned it."

Felix laughed, then sobered. "But I wasn't wearing that when I—"

"I. Don't. Care." I wagged the hat at him again. "You asked me for help. I'm helping you. The hat has got to go."

"Is it…contaminated?"

"Sure."

Felix nodded, staring at the hat with an adorable frown like it had personally betrayed him. "I suppose I could buy a new one?"

If he bought a new one I'd burn that one too. I didn't tell him that. As that was on a need to know basis. He certainly looked better without his face half obscured in shadow. Even drowning in my clothes, I much preferred him this way.

The moonlight that streamed through the window cast his pale skin in an ethereal glow. All his silly, pretty features clearly on display. The curve of his square jaw. The flicker of muscle when he clenched it. The swoop of his nose—regal almost—and the way his dark lashes were long enough that when they blinked they nearly kissed the beauty mark below his eye.

Felix Finley had always looked oddly…familiar.

Especially now, with his hat and sunglasses gone. From the moment I'd met him, I'd had this odd feeling that I'd seen him before. Perhaps in passing on a street, or in a dream I could no longer remember. That feeling was only amplified now that he sat beside me and I could see him clearly.

I locked those thoughts away as I cleared my throat, waiting pointedly for him to get the hint and get the fuck out of my car .

"Oh, sorry." Felix shoved the door open, sliding out with surprising grace that he immediately ruined the effect of, because his dopey smile appeared again as he ducked down to say goodbye. He looked like an overeager puppy dog, far too excited at the prospect of spending more time together. "You'll come over—"

"Later, yes. Try not to touch anything or… god — spread anything. Please."

"No spreading the crime sce—"

"Uh—" I cut him off, glancing around to make sure the street was still dead. Realistically it was four in the morning. No one was awake, aside from us. Not in our sleepy mountain town. "Watch your mouth, Finley."

"Felix." Felix's cheeks were splotchy red as he bit his lip.

"Whatever."

Finley-Felix-Whatever grinned at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

He was an odd man. He spoke in a dated sort of way, and despite being an idiot—came across as far older than he looked.

Sometimes, it even seemed as though he was from a different time period entirely, all "gosh's" and "neat"s, and vintage clothing. Often his accent was almost transatlantic, which I could only attribute to perhaps an upbringing reared entirely in front of black and white television.

I could relate, as my mother had been a movie buff before she died .

"I can have your shirt dry cleaned," Felix offered in that same lilting tone he always used, while simultaneously waving one of the aforementioned shirt's drooping sleeves at me.

I hated how cute he looked, swathed in Armani.

"Mmm." It was neither agreement or disagreement. The only dry cleaner I trusted was my own—as he was a member of The Club —but I wasn't about to shoot Felix while he was already down. "Goodnight, Finley."

Felix made an annoyed sound in response to the use of his last name, but his smile didn't waver. "Goodnight, Marshall."

Despite telling him to be quiet, I couldn't help but add in my severest tone possible, "Try not to kill anyone else, please?"

"Aye aye, Captain."

And with that, he was off, practically skipping up the steps to his front door.

I pulled away, parking inside my own garage across the street, though I didn't head inside.

Instead, I watched the lights in Felix's downstairs windows flick off one by one. Watched as the ones upstairs turned on, and the silhouette of his body peeped through the glass as he climbed upward.

Despite the hiccups, the hat, and the fact I hadn't sated my curiosity, today had been a good day.

The chirp of crickets was peaceful. It reminded me of my youth. Of nights spent on the farm with my window open, listening to the breeze.

I wasn't ready to go inside, not yet .

Despite the fact that the narrow house across the street was an eyesore at best. It was tall, comprised of three stories with dark wood paneling and drooping vines that dripped like ink down its walls. At night the house almost seemed to loom . It tipped to the side in an illusion that made it look like something out of a storybook for goth children. Very Poe, Felix's house was. Tim Burton-esque.

In the daylight, the chipped indigo paint was almost cheerful, but at night it gave the home a quite severe presence. It looked aged and worn. Ill maintained. Like the owner who'd had it before Felix hadn't known how to take care of a home at all.

The yard—which was more of a jungle than a yard at this point—only further solidified that assumption.

I wondered if he'd inherited the home.

It was odd that a man like Felix lived in a home like that. He was soft sweaters, rainbow yarn, and floppy hats. He should be in a home covered in flowers, with honeysuckle and brick. This house was more suited for Dracula than a man who wore his heart on his sleeve etched in unpracticed, loopy embroidery.

I wasn't naive. I knew Felix Finley had his secrets. We all did. Me especially. This town was full of them. The Club was a prime example of that. A town like Beach Town—small, quiet, off the beaten path with no beach in sight—should not have housed such an eclectic mix of murderers, but it did.

It was one of the reasons I loved it .

Like all of my colleagues, I was intelligent enough to hunt in the city an hour or so north.

Don't shit where you eat, and all that.

Which was why it was uncomfortable to think that Felix had so clearly not gotten the memo. He'd killed inside his home, in a town small enough that missing citizens would go noticed. I could only hope the man he'd been with had been a one night stand like the others—and that he'd traveled here, as I had no idea how else Felix planned on getting away with it.

I was tempted to warn him—to give him some…friendly advice. But I still wasn't certain if this was a one-off, or if he—like me—had a taste for things of a more bloody nature.

I wasn't about to blow my cover. Not to a man that wore pastel unironically.

So yes, I wasn't naive. Felix Finley could keep his secrets for now, just as I would keep mine.

I would wait, I would observe, and I would try to forget that sunny, pointy little smile—at least until later, after work, when I'd help him clean up the mess he'd made.

That smile certainly wouldn't follow me to bed.

No.

That would be inappropriate.

Later that day, at six thirty p.m. exactly, I arrived at Felix's door. I'd managed a few hours of sleep, but otherwise had been too excited to rest. Felix didn't answer when I knocked the first time, or the second, or the third. Irritated, I rang the doorbell, only for the front door to creak open, a beam of light flooding the dark hallway. I'd had to traverse his mess of a yard to get to the steps, and I was in no mood to be trifled with—even though the prospect of cleaning up after a murder was quite exciting.

"Finley?" I frowned, glancing left and right before finally spotting him, half concealed by the door itself. He was wearing pajamas. As though he'd still been sleeping. I stared at him as the soft melodic curl of his voice met my ears.

"Sorry," he croaked. "Just woke up."

I supposed it had been a late night. I'd always operated fine with barely any sleep, so I couldn't actually understand. But still.

Felix didn't move into the light. In fact, he didn't move at all. He stayed half hidden, his sleep-heavy lashes blinking as he stared at me. "You can come in," he offered, clearly waiting for something.

I supposed it wasn't that odd that he was hiding behind the door—even though it was. If he hadn't been Felix Finley—social recluse—but a normal person, he would've greeted me and ushered me in rather than skulking about in the shadows. But he wasn't a normal person. So therefore, lurking was to be expected .

I shrugged off my unease, entered the house, and moved out of the way so he could shut us inside. Immediately the scent of dust hit my nose and I nearly sneezed.

"Would you mind closing that for me, please?" Felix cocked his head toward the shade that covered the stained glass that lined the side of his door. "I forgot when I got home last night."

How very polite.

I squinted at him, but did as I was told, pulling the shade into place. For a moment we were fully enveloped in darkness. When Felix reached for the light switch and flipped it on, the long cluttered hallway was illuminated.

Ah. So that's where the dust was coming from.

Everything.

I itched to march across the street, grab my bucket of cleaning supplies, and return to fix the issue. Though I knew that I may end up doing just that—depending on the state of the murder scene. So I bit back the urge for now.

The carpet was worn and old. The pattern dated and out of fashion, as was everything else. Portraits lined the hallway, depicting scenery from all over the world—some of which reminded me of movies I'd watched with my mother as a child.

Hundreds of letters were framed and mounted in glass. They took up the entire back wall beside the long, winding staircase that led upward, ending in shadow. There was an antique air to everything, though luckily—for both me and my nose—the scent that usually accompanied old houses and old people was missing—apart from the dust.

I'd always had to pinch my nose when visiting my grandmother's home. Only when she wasn't looking, of course. My mother had gotten quite offended the first time she'd caught me doing it—and I hadn't repeated that mistake ever again.

I hated disappointing her.

Even though Grandma smelled like mothballs, Mentos, and dried-up flowers. And it almost physically pained me not to say something about it. I still managed to keep my mouth shut.

It only took me a moment to take everything in, before my focus moved back to Felix. Back to his nearly red eyes, and the dark circles beneath them. Back to his broad shoulders, and the way the silk of his navy pajamas hugged the curve of muscle.

He had a movie star's body.

One that was far too pretty to belong to a man who hid himself away.

He should be flaunting it, not…whatever it was he was doing.

The only reason I didn't show off my own physique was because I maintained my body not for aesthetics—though that helped—but because muscle was kind of a requirement when one's hobby produced corpses.

"Thank you for your help," Felix said, voice shaky and soft, slow—like he was still half-asleep. He sounded almost drunk. My hackles rose .

"You haven't been drinking have you?" I asked, disapprovingly.

"No, why?" Felix frowned up at me, an adorable little wrinkle between his dark brows.

"You're acting odd."

"Oh," Felix laughed, his shoulders relaxing as the tension bled away. "It always takes me a while to get my brain to fully wake."

"I see."

That made him vulnerable.

His guard was down. He was breathing evenly. His eyes were warm, if not a little nervous. There was tension in his frame but it was a normal amount of tension. Equivalent to what I would feel if I had let a stranger into my home for the first time.

Could he not sense that I was a predator?

Maybe not.

Most prey did not greet their hunters at the door.

Not that I was hunting Felix at the moment—believe me, I wasn't . If I was, he would not be looking at me like that . Whatever the hell that face meant. If he was Bambi then I was the hunter with a gun. He should not be staring at me like he wanted me to run him over—with his guard down entirely.

Felix clearly had no self-preservation skills. He was very lucky I'd decided to take him under my metaphorical wing—and that I protected men like him, rather than eating them.

Though perhaps he'd like that ?

He certainly looked like he wanted to be eaten.

Maybe he was lying, and he really was drunk. I had no other explanation for the blatant hunger in his eyes, or the way his gaze kept dropping to my throat. His Adam's apple bobbed, his pink tongue flickering out to wet his lower, very chapped lip.

I'd always disliked alcohol. It had a tendency to alter a person's behavior to the point they were often barely recognizable. It could turn even the kindest man into a monster. (I should know, I was one.)

It could cause mistakes that never should have been made—like that time my mother had started covertly drinking the wine she'd bought for the Christmas roast and nearly burnt our house down.

Regrets were not something I nurtured, unlike some of my sisters, and half the people I'd gone to college with—which was why I not only didn't participate in alcohol consumption, but abhorred it entirely.

I hated it almost as much as I hated bullies.

And that was saying something.

"How are you today?" Felix asked politely, his eyes a luminous red in the light.

Did he wear colored contacts? Why?

He had such impeccable manners. My mother would've been proud.

"Fine."

Quick, say something clever .

"Your house is a mess." Shit.

Felix laughed, his eyes crinkling. "It is," he shrugged, then glanced around. "I'm…working on it." His lips tipped upward and I—once again—tried not to find his smile pretty.

He was a lot more interesting than I'd thought he'd be.

"I have bleach," I offered, and Felix snorted.

"Duly noted."

This was odd. Uncomfortable. Standing here in his hallway. Talking . I'd never been inside his house, despite being his neighbor for nearly ten years. We didn't speak often, or really at all. Only in passing, when he was sitting on his porch in the dark with a reading lamp on his head and I was returning from a late shift working overtime.

Oh, and that one memorable time he'd been out walking his cats.

On leashes.

In the middle of the night.

Felix had excitedly waved at me, despite the fact it was nearly two in the morning, and the only reason I was out late was because there'd been a damn Christmas party at work and I'd felt obligated to go. My boss, Harold, was a decent enough man. I didn't hate him. And he'd asked me to stay after everyone else had left, so I had. Even though he was dressed like Santa and smelled like rum. He'd just gone through a messy divorce and I supposed he'd been lonely.

I hadn't waved back at Felix.

Now I wished I had .

Seeing him out at night like that hadn't struck me as odd then, mostly because I very rarely spared thoughts for Felix Finley—but now…

Now I wondered why he'd been out on the road that late.

It was Christmas Eve.

Why was he…alone?

Now that I thought about it…aside from his paramours, I hadn't ever seen anyone visit Felix. On occasion, Barry would go over there to bother him, sure. But he did that to everyone, me included. I couldn't recall ever seeing the same guest return. Nor had I ever seen family or friends arrive to visit him. Not even on Christmas Day, when I left to visit my sisters.

How long had he sat quiet in this mausoleum of a home? Surrounded by things and not people, alone in the dark.

Even at Barry's party—the party that we do not speak of—Felix and I had barely shared a sentence or two.

Felix's awkward, "Hi, Marshall, nice shirt" had seemed sufficient.

Besides, the lack of conversation hadn't actually mattered, if I was being honest. Because Felix had shown his true colors that day, and though they'd been painfully orange , ever since he'd stood beside me when no one else had—I…well, perhaps I'd decided that even though I didn't like him—because I didn't like anyone —that Felix was the kind of man who needed looking after.

He was confident in a way most people never were. Like now. The way he was looking at me, the way he'd invited me into his home without care. That was something I never would've done. My home was my safe space. Everything was exactly where it should be. It didn't smell like other people, and they didn't track their dirt, their pet's fur, or their problems inside it.

Felix moved like he knew exactly what his body looked like when he did so—all effortless grace, like a dancer. He spoke fluidly, the cadence of his voice like spun gold.

Felix was confident.

But he was brittle too.

I may not have been good with people, but I'd always made a habit of observing. Especially those that were vulnerable, as that was an integral part of my yearly murder ritual. Felix looked exactly like the kind of man I'd try to defend.

Somehow…he'd managed to wheedle his way to the side of my heart that was reserved for people I would not kill, even under duress. There weren't many people there, so the fact that someone who was practically a stranger had managed to climb over what I'd thought was an impenetrable wall, was…alarming, to say the least.

And that was before I'd caught him with a dead body of his own.

Felix somehow managed to get more and more interesting with every day that passed.

Maybe that was why I'd bolted across the street to help when I'd seen him attempting to get the corpse inside his garage. He'd looked frightened , and panicked . Even from as far away as my kitchen window I'd been able to see that he was shaking as he lugged the corpse through his jungle of a yard. When he'd paused, glancing both ways down the street to make sure no one was watching, my fate had been sealed.

Because he was an amateur.

An amateur who needed me. Because he'd been kind to me when I needed an ally. Because my mother had raised me to be the kind of man who recognized a good person when I saw them. The kind of man who helped those that needed it, even if I'd never been good with people.

Felix had been lucky I was the only neighbor close enough to see his amateur attempt at disposing of the body. We lived in a cul-de-sac, but thankfully, at the end of it. Separated from our other neighbors by a tiny little park meant for toddlers and dogs—and other creatures without fully developed frontal lobes.

He was lucky he hadn't been caught, despite the distance between our homes and theirs. We certainly weren't alone, after all. And our neighbors may be what society deemed "nice" (questionable—I'm looking at you, Barry the bitch). But even nice neighbors would certainly notice a small, floppy-hatted young man yeeting dead bodies across their lawns.

"Are you okay?" Felix asked, because I'd been silent too long, probably .

I hated that. Getting stuck in my own head. It didn't happen often anymore. Apparently Felix brought out my weaknesses as much as he benefited from my strengths—literally.

"Yes," I replied curtly, focusing on the present. Focusing on the tilt of his jaw, the light in his eyes, and the fact that he looked surprisingly well-rested for a man that had just graduated with a degree in manslaughter. "Where am I needed?"

"Oh, right." Felix blinked, still groggy. "Um." He bit his lip. I tried not to stare, and failed. His lips were chapped. They looked painful. I can fix that. Without thinking, I pulled a chapstick out of my front pocket. Popping the cap off, I slid into Felix's space without a second thought. When I grabbed his face, my palm nearly enveloped it entirely.

He's so small.

It wasn't the first time I'd had that thought.

It certainly wouldn't be the last.

As he was…quite small.

Almost offensively so.

Felix's size was not new, but the little thrill that curled in my belly when I looked at him was.

"Hold still," I commanded.

His skin was buttery soft beneath the pads of my fingers. The prickle of stubble rubbed the base of my palm as I forced his head back to a more helpful angle. His eyes were wide, his lashes fluttering. I could count them, I was so close. Sliding my other thumb across the tip of the cherry chapstick, I then brought it to his lips, gently swiping across them to spread it evenly.

All the while, Felix stared at me.

He's always staring at me.

So very quiet. Far more quiet than I'd ever seen him. His usual useless chatter was notably missing. He was so still, I wasn't certain he was even breathing at all.

The softness of his cool, petal-pink lower lip kissed my fingertip as I pulled that hand away. Heat curled in my belly, uncomfortable and unfamiliar as I tried to forget the peek I'd gotten of those pearly, sharp little teeth. Sucking in a fortifying breath, I recapped the chapstick, and ignored the fact that my skin was tingling where I still gripped his fragile face.

It would be so easy to crush him. To twist his neck. To be done with him entirely.

I don't want that.

" Gosh ," Felix said, his voice low and rough, breath brushing my palm.

Gosh, indeed.

His pupils had expanded. His cheeks were flushed. I could feel his gaze heavy as a caress. I could feel the way he was looking at me, like he wasn't quite sure what to make of me. Like he didn't understand, but he wanted to.

Felix's eyes said, please .

They said, I'm scared.

They said, touch me .

I cleared my throat, released his face, and took a half-step back. If I'd been slightly less affected, maybe I would've realized Felix still hadn't breathed. Not once. But…I was— affected , I mean. Unfairly so. Irritated with myself, I ignored him entirely, and focused on the hallway behind us.

"Where do you need me?" I kept my tone curt, so as not to invite questions.

"In the bedroom," his voice was low and scratchy.

In the—

" Excuse me? " I stared at the tiny little gremlin man, and his completely inappropriate suggestion. Felix stared back—equally…confused?

Huh.

Oh .

Had he not meant?—Oh.

I watched in real time as what he'd said finally dawned on him. Immediately, he stumbled back a step, his arms waving frantically.

"No, no. I didn't mean like that . I mean—not that I wouldn't, because…look at you. I just meant—well." He sucked in a panicked breath. "That the—I mean. I…the guy…the one—"

"Breathe, Finley."

Felix sucked in a breath gratefully, like he actually had forgotten until I'd reminded him. "I just…I mean, I killed him—by accident—in the bedroom." Felix blinked, voice quaking. "Don't look at me like that. It wasn't what you think—I mean—it's hard to explain." Felix said the word " killed ", like he expected to get his mouth washed out with soap afterward. I couldn't help but feel charmed—maybe a little.

Especially because he looked so miserable.

I kind of wanted to push—to see how easy it would be to break him—but that would be rude.

"Show me to your room. You can explain as we walk."

How had someone so small and soft killed someone?

It didn't make sense.

I supposed I was about to find out.