3. Chapter 3

3

T he alarm clock flashed at Quinn from the bedside table. He'd already hit the snooze button four times and was about to go for the fifth, but his reaching hand was savaged.

"Ow, you little shit."

Mars retracted his claws and ceased gnawing Quinn's knuckles. He dropped back to the floor where he'd been sat waiting for Quinn to reach over to the clock.

"That was completely uncalled for," Quinn said, cradling his wounded hand. Mars hadn't done any damage; it was the shock of the ambush that had made Quinn cry out.

He peered over the side of the bed, narrowing his eyes at Mars as he sat, swinging his tail back and forth. Mars was called Mars because of his rustic red coat. He was short-haired and short-tempered; Quinn quickly found out after adopting him a year before.

"I get it," Quinn told him. "You're hungry."

Mars slow-blinked at him. Before Quinn could reply to that, the alarm clock started ringing. He didn't press snooze; he turned the alarm off and struggled into a sitting position against the headboard.

Satisfied Quinn wasn't about to fall back to sleep, Mars left the room, slipping through the gap of the partially open door and disappearing down the stairs.

Quinn sighed and risked a peek at his phone. It was both a relief and a disappointment to find no new messages waiting for him.

He turned back to the bedside table, stretching over the alarm clock to the photo frame on the other side of it. He'd faced it down four weeks ago, but that morning he decided to look again. Quinn smiled in the picture. He wore palm-leave-patterned board shorts and an open blue shirt. Sunglasses were pushed into his hair, and he held a beer in his hand. He'd smiled in the photograph, not because anyone had told him to, but because he'd been happy.

The other man in the photograph, Damon, also smiled. He wore matching shorts and a bright-red shirt that matched his flip-flops and his shades.

Their mutual friends, Alex and Eric, had awed at the beautiful picture. It had fast become one of Quinn's favourites.

Quinn lifted the frame closer to his face, studying Damon, thinking about Zane's words from the day before. Photographs like this, with them both looking at the camera, raising their beers, were staged.

Quinn knew he was genuinely happy, but he didn't know whether Damon was. Sure, he smiled widely, pushing up his slightly sunburned cheeks. There were creases spreading out beneath his shades, all leading Quinn to believe he'd been happy, but was he wrong?

Was Damon starting to twitch with their domesticity?

Did his gaze wander when Quinn had his back turned?

Quinn sighed and placed the photograph back on the bedside table.

Face down.

Mars appeared in the doorway and delivered his passive-aggressive meow.

"Okay, okay," Quinn said, climbing out of bed. He pointed at the door that led to the ensuite. "I'm going, see?"

Mars slow-blinked at him again, then vanished.

After feeding Mars and nibbling at a piece of toast himself, Quinn found himself staring at the fridge in longing, not for the food inside, but for the various magnets he'd collected from places they'd visited.

Damon had called it cute.

Quinn didn't know if he believed that anymore.

There had always been an eye roll and a shake of the head whenever Quinn bought one. Quinn turned away. He hated the weekends for this very reason. The prison, the participants, and the study all kept him busy during the week, but as soon as he woke up on Saturday, he knew the sharp edges of his broken heart would cut deeper without a distraction.

Mars hopped onto the kitchen table. Now he'd had food, he allowed Quinn to pet his head.

He'd allowed Quinn to touch him more and more since Damon had left, like he knew Quinn needed comfort. It was against his normal nature, but he was trying anyway.

He and Damon hadn't broken up.

But the relationship was hanging by a thread.

Damon had left to stay with Eric to give Quinn space to think.

But Quinn thought he'd got the rawer deal. At every turn, the house reminded him of Damon, from his winter coat still hanging by the front door to the ketchup splatter on the wall after he'd squeezed the bottle too hard.

They'd been happy, or so Quinn had thought, but if they were happy, Damon wouldn't have been unfaithful. He wouldn't have got their mutual friends to lie about it, tripling the heartbreak Quinn felt.

The study. He nodded to himself, leaving the kitchen. He had to focus on the study.

Files and folders were stacked on the coffee table in the living room.

Each pile had a number, from one to seven.

It was a small sample size, but enough that the university was satisfied and had agreed to fund his study and pay him a wage. He had a doctorate in psychology and had always found the darker mind the most fascinating.

He laid a hand on Mackie's pile. His dog-like attentiveness was a welcome relief to some of the others.

Harris, number two, reminded Quinn of Mars. He gave nothing of himself away, skirted around the main points, got Quinn to chase the conversation, and then right at the end, when Quinn was close to giving up, he smiled and gave Quinn the answer he was hoping for, bluntly and straight to the point. At the end of their time, it was Quinn who thanked Harris over and over for cooperating. Harris grinned, bowed his head, and would tell Quinn, "You're welcome."

Quinn needed Harris on the study.

He had already been assessed by another psychologist years before and scored highly on Quinn's criteria. The interviews worked through a checklist of personality traits and behaviours. Anyone scoring higher than thirty was an ideal participant, and Quinn expected Harris to be one of them.

Then there was Richard, number three, who reminded Quinn of a snake.

His laugh left his lips in rushes, and he didn't appear to blink. Quinn unconsciously blinked twice as much. He didn't know whether he was overcompensating or whether he was trying to encourage Richard into blinking, but he couldn't stop himself and spent a quarter of their sessions with his eyes shut.

Tony, number four, was big and hairy like a bear, and Noah, number five, reminded Quinn of a peacock with his pretty makeup all over his face and his colourful clothes.

Virgil, number six, was the most terrifying man Quinn had ever met. He was a shark in bloody water. The governor at Greenwood had made it clear Quinn couldn't always have an officer with him in the room, they didn't have the resources, but he made an exception for Virgil. He hadn't threatened Quinn. In fact, the first day they'd met, he told Quinn he had no desire to kill him, but that was hardly reassuring when faced with a murderer like him.

Then there was participant number seven, late to the party and not for the first time according to the press, Zane Black.

He'd expressed his interest to Cleo that he wanted to take part, and after she begged and pleaded, Quinn allowed him onto the study in the zero hour.

Quinn had been hesitant because he…knew Zane Black from the papers. Long before he'd killed, before Quinn had gone through university, even college, Zane had been on the news, hanging out with rock stars, footballers, actors, people with money, and when Quinn was seventeen, discovering his sexual preferences, he saw a front page with a naked Zane Black that had woken a very visceral desire.

He'd kept the page underneath his pillow.

Teenage lust had taken over, and when kiss-and-tells from men and women got printed about Zane, Quinn found them a huge turn-on to read and picture in his head.

Lust went away.

Quinn started university, met guys and eventually Damon, and Zane Black was just another random celebrity who occasionally did something stupid or questionable.

Even when he was first convicted, Quinn didn't pay much attention to him, focused as he was on his dissertation.

Fast forward three years, and he was doing a study at Greenwood that Zane Black wanted to take part in.

When he'd whipped off his T-shirt, he'd been all man, cocksure, and proud of his body. Quinn had been so startled, having got distracted by the label Zane had used to describe his dad's unrequited love.

Pathetic.

The next thing he knew, a half-naked Zane Black was posturing in front of him for no apparent reason and Quinn felt like he had when he was seventeen. Shocked, confused, and oh so curious. He should've banned Zane from the study right there and then, but he hadn't. He stuttered and blushed, and afterwards he'd let Cleo convince him to take a chance on Zane.

Quinn glanced over to Mars, who had curled up on the sofa. He wagged his finger at him. "But if he does it again, he's gone."

Zane waited in the office, thankfully with his T-shirt on. He smiled wide, and his eyes lit up. He slouched in his chair with his legs spread. Quinn marched into the room with all the confidence he could muster and placed his papers on the table.

"Before we get started," Quinn said. "We need to discuss last week."

"Were my answers not what you had hoped for?"

Quinn shook his head. "I didn't mean that; I meant the whole…undressing yourself. It was inappropriate."

"I'm starting to think that's your favourite word."

Quinn held his thumb and his forefinger a centimetre apart. "I was this close to kicking you off the study."

Zane's smug smile retracted, and he blinked. "Why didn't you?"

"Cleo."

"Cleo," Zane whispered. "I'll have to thank her."

"Why did you take it off?" Quinn asked. He held his hand out at Zane. "And don't say it was because you felt hot."

Zane sucked on his bottom lip. "I'll tell you why if you promise not to kick me off the study."

"Okay."

"I wanted an answer."

"An answer?" Quinn frowned. "You didn't ask a question."

"I didn't need to ask it with words."

Quinn rubbed circles into his temples. "I don't understand."

"I wanted to know if you found me attractive. I wanted to know whether you were gay."

"What?"

"I make you nervous, I can tell, but I wanted to see if beneath that, you found me pleasing to the eye, and your reaction told me more than your denials ever could. You find me… very pleasing."

Quinn's mouth bobbed open, and denials ranging from a whispered disbelief to angered shouting formed in his head, but he said nothing.

"I'm here for a study," he said. "Whether I'm gay or if I find you attractive, is completely irrelevant."

Zane cocked his head. "You're not going to deny it then?"

"Is there any point?"

Zane grinned, flashing his teeth. "No, there's not."

"But you've got to promise me you won't do that again."

"Not unless you ask me."

"Zane…"

"Okay, okay." Zane held his hands up in surrender. "I promise."

"Thank you."

"Hit me with your next lot of questions."

Quinn rocked back on his heels, then sat down on his chair. He arranged his papers, clicked record, then cleared his throat. "They're more about childhood."

Zane tapped his temple. "Mackie's already filled me in."

"Of course he did…"

"Pets, right?"

Quinn nodded. "Did you have any?"

"An annoying Jack Russell."

"What did he do that you found annoying?"

"Chewed up my trainers."

"And that made you angry?"

Zane scrunched his brow. "If some mangy mutt ripped your brand-new trainers to pieces, wouldn't you be mad?"

"Did you shout at the dog?"

"No, but I ran after him."

"What did you do when you caught him?"

"I didn't." Zane snorted. "He had a hole dug under the fence and vanished into my neighbour's garden."

"What would you have done?"

"I don't know… Nothing. I don't hurt animals if that's where we're going with this?"

There was hostility in Zane's voice, and Quinn hurried to change the subject.

"Last time, you said you went fishing with your dad. Can you tell me more about that?"

Zane's lips parted, but no words followed.

"Zane?"

"Oh, I see…"

"What do you see?"

"Hurting animals, fishing. We killed the fish. Is that the indicator you're hoping for?"

Quinn shook his head. "No, I just wanted you to tell me about spending time with your dad. Nothing to do with the fish."

"We fished, we played golf, and we watched silent movies. All the things he loved."

"Did you do anything together that you suggested, that you liked, not him?"

"I liked those things because he did. Don't we inherit our parents' likes? Surely there's something your dad likes that you now do too. You took it and made it yours."

"I guess."

Zane leaned forward. "What is it?"

Quinn laughed lightly. "We're not here to talk about me."

"But you ask all these questions, it's only natural I'm curious about you too. Aren't the others?"

Out of all the participants, Zane was the first to ask Quinn about himself. Most of them enjoyed the sound of their own voice and cut him off when he talked, but Zane cocked his head and waited.

"What's the harm in getting to know you?"

Quinn placed his pencil on the table. "Okay. My dad loved astronomy. He would show me the constellations. Even on the coldest nights, if the sky was clear, we'd wrap up warm, fill a flask, and find the stars."

They'd always planned on seeing the northern lights together, the ultimate astronomy experience, but it never happened.

"It made you happy?"

Quinn startled. "Yeah, it made me happy."

"Is he still alive?"

"No. A year ago now…"

Maybe it wasn't the holiday, maybe it had been then , when Quinn had withdrawn into himself to grieve. Maybe he'd pushed Damon away and into the arms of—

"But you still like the stars?"

"Huh?" Quinn snapped his head up. "Sorry."

"I asked if you still like the stars."

Quinn nodded. "I still go out and look."

"Go out?"

"There's a field behind my house."

"Makes sense, no seeing the stars in the city, or not the twinkling type."

"Exactly. I live in a small village, not as much light pollution."

Zane looked away. "I don't see them here, not even through the windows."

Quinn frowned, then whispered, "Floodlights."

"Not that I've ever really looked at the night sky. It's irrelevant to me, specks of white on endless black. It borders pointless."

"On a clear night, it can seem quite magical."

"I'll take your word for it."

Quinn snorted. "But it's not quite the same without my dad."

"Don't you have someone else to look at the sky with, your mum?"

"I could but…"

"But what?"

"She moved away after my dad died. I really should fly out to see her soon." He swallowed. "It's been a while."

Zane hummed. "Anyone else?"

"Erm—not really."

"I'm sure that can be fixed…"

"What?"

Zane dropped his gaze, and Quinn followed his line of sight to his watch. He grasped it, sighed, and then adjusted the dial. "Oh right, the watch, yeah…I keep forgetting."

"You wanted to know about me and my dad fishing?"

Quinn smiled and picked up his pencil. "Yeah, tell me about it."

"Okay," Zane mumbled, leaning forward, and with a fond grin, he started to recall tales.

There was no traumatic occurrence between Zane and his dad. Not unless he was burying it under a veil of fake sincerity. There was one trip when they caught nothing and distracted another fisherman to steal his bounty. A trip where they caught a fish so large it wriggled and knocked Zane into the water. His contented expression seemed to open his dark eyes, allowing Quinn to see his brown irises, the warm soul of the man in front of him, and there were moments Quinn forgot he was talking to a murderer at all.

There were moments where he had to bite his tongue to stop asking questions.

He had to look down, remind himself these were the questions, the script to stick to.

"It must've been really hard when he died," Quinn said, inwardly bracing for Zane to lose it.

Zane cracked his jaw. His smile faded. His eyes looked dark again. "They said I fell off the wagon after."

"Who said that?"

"The press, the company. Shares plummeted. One photograph where I hadn't straightened my tie or tucked in my shirt, and suddenly I was an alcoholic. I was spiralling out of control with booze as my buddy, and I couldn't seem to do anything right. There were all sorts of ridiculous allegations being thrown at me from every angle."

"Were you a heavy drinker before he died?"

"No…I didn't start drinking alcohol until I was labelled an alcoholic…"

"I don't understand."

"One day you will, but it looks like our time's up for now."

Quinn glanced at the clock and sank into his chair. "You're right."

"Same time next week," Zane said, getting to his feet. He tapped the back of his wrist. "Don't be late…"

Quinn snorted at his slowing watch. "I won't be."