7. Chapter 7

7

Q uinn paced the downstairs of the house as he waited, pausing every so often by the kitchen window. It overlooked the parking space, and he waited for Damon's BMW to fill it.

Damon had a habit of being late, and he wasn't planning on fixing the irritating habit for their last encounter. The bags with his belongings were stacked in the kitchen, and the dividing of their possessions had been both sad and therapeutic.

The gravel on the driveway crunched, and Quinn eased out a slow breath. He'd not seen Damon for almost two months and had ignored his pleading texts and weekly calls.

It was over.

Damon waited on the doorstep with a bunch of lilies in his hand. They were Quinn's favourite flowers, and the chocolates pinned beneath his arm were Quinn's favourite too. Damon's eyes drooped with sadness, his blond hair was dishevelled, and he directed his voice at Quinn's feet.

"These are for you."

He shoved the flowers and chocolate towards Quinn, and he had no option but to take them. "Thanks," he uttered, taking a step back. He looked at what Damon was wearing and lost his train of thought. It was the red shirt of their Portugal holiday. The one he was wearing in the photograph by the bed. Quinn jumped at the gentle kiss to his cheek and took a few hurried steps back.

"Can I… Can I come in?" Damon asked.

"Yeah." Quinn scratched the back of his head.

The mark on his cheek felt cold.

Damon wiped his feet on the mat, then slipped his trainers off. He looked around the hallway, then poked his head in the living room, then the bathroom beneath the stairs. It looked like he was checking the place out.

"I'm glad you wanted to talk," Damon said finally. "It's about time we sorted this out."

Quinn shook his head. "I didn't say I wanted to talk. I said I wanted to give you your stuff back. It's in the kitchen. Ready."

Damon frowned, then strolled ahead. He brushed by Quinn to get in the kitchen and came to a stop in front of the piles of bags. "You're kidding me…"

"I said it was over, and I meant it."

"No."

Quinn recoiled. "What do you mean, no?"

Damon brushed by him again and ended up in the living room. He collapsed down on the sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table.

"We're not going to end things because of one silly mistake."

Quinn stood in the doorway. "Except, it wasn't just once, was it…"

Damon cocked his jaw. "I'm counting the whole thing as one mistake."

"How convenient."

"It was harmless flirting, that…that turned to more."

Quinn took a deep breath. "This harmless flirting started around the time my dad was taken to hospital."

Damon twisted his body to face Quinn. "I'm ashamed of my behaviour. I shouldn't have…messaged him, but he was the pursuer."

"Really?"

"Really." Damon's eyes widened.

"I asked Sam to send me the messages, and he did…so I know that's not true."

Damon looked away.

"Why?" Quinn asked. His voice cracked with the word.

"You were distant."

"My dad was dying."

Damon closed his eyes. "I know."

"And you carried on…texting, sending videos and pictures or whatever. Why arrange to meet him?"

Damon shrugged. "You got distant again. It felt like you didn't want me."

"I was trying to get this study approved. You know how hard it was."

"Everything became about the study."

Quinn turned away. "That's not fair."

"We used to be fun, Quinn. We used to go out partying every weekend."

"We were at university." Quinn shook his head. "We're not now."

"And don't I know it," Damon snapped. He glanced around the room. "This…is not where I thought I'd end up."

"There's nothing wrong with this place."

"We're living in a rickety old house in a shitty little village where the neighbours get excited over scarecrow festivals, and you're considering renting an allotment." Damon shuddered. "We're twenty-three. I thought we'd have this set up when we were in our forties, not now when we're young. I don't want… this ."

"Why not tell me that?"

"I'm telling you now." Damon shifted closer. "We can start again. The holiday to Portugal, it showed me we can be good again. It felt like us again. If we move to the city, get jobs, go out every weekend… We can have fun again."

Quinn shook his head. "I can't. I don't want that."

"You want your rickety house in your shitty village, where all you ever talk about is that godawful study."

"If you hated being with me so much, then why not leave me?"

"I love you, Quinn." Damon looked at him like it was obvious. "I love clubbing, drinking, affectionate, fun-time Quinn, and I always hoped he'd come back to me, but he's changed into a dull, lifeless version of himself."

"Thanks."

Damon shrugged. "It's true."

"We're not students anymore."

"And we're not grandads who buy allotments and stay in on the weekends. Now…I'm willing to try again, but you've got to meet me halfway."

"How has this turned around on me?"

"There's been fault on both sides," Damon said. "I cheated, but that wouldn't have happened if things were good between us, and that's on both of us, on me for looking elsewhere and on you for changing, growing distant. The whole time I was staying at Eric's, I was thinking about the good times, the university times. The fun, the thrill, that's what I want."

"The whole time you were away, I was thinking about the future…us growing old together, but we're not…we're not compatible. Not anymore."

"Not right now," Damon said. "But we can change that."

He got to his feet. "Come on, Quinn. No twenty-three-year-old wants this." He looked around the living room again, glancing at the full bookcase. He smirked and kicked the Scrabble box he knew was under the coffee table. "It's boring." He shuddered. "This house is stifling."

"I find it cosy. It's a home. My home." Quinn swallowed the lump in his throat and backed out of the room. "I think you should take your things now."

"You can't be serious?"

"I am, Damon."

Damon strolled into the hall, flashed a look at the bagged possessions in the kitchen, then shook his head. "Keep them, so you remember what you had and what you lost. What you gave up for this." He kicked the doorframe, and the wood crumbled. "We used to be good together."

"We were," Quinn agreed. "But not anymore."

Damon shook his head as he slid his trainers back on. He left the door wide open as he left and revved his car loud enough to anger the neighbours.

Quinn retreated to the living room and pushed the Scrabble box back beneath the coffee table with his foot.

On Friday, Zane strolled into the room with a fierce frown tugging at his brow. He spied Quinn's watch, then sagged.

"Thank God for that." He exhaled.

"Still the blue one."

"I was worried Damon would've wrapped you around his finger, and his watch around your wrist."

Quinn clutched the watch and shook his head. It had been almost a week, and he still felt conflicted.

"Don't," Zane said softly.

Quinn glanced up and lifted his eyebrow. "Don't what?"

"Whatever he said, don't dwell on it."

"He said I'd changed. I'd become boring, and, well, maybe he's got a point."

"You're not boring."

Quinn snorted. "You don't know me, Zane."

"I find you fascinating."

"Why?"

Zane shrugged.

"I read far too many fantasy books; I enjoy playing Scrabble even if I'm playing alone. I rent a decrepit house in a tiny village no one has heard of because it's all I can afford, but I don't hate it because I grew up in a tiny village and I find it homely. My weekdays are spent here, talking to violent offenders, and by the time I've written everything up, I'm so tired I sleep most of Saturday away. Sunday, I do the weekly shop, and then I go home and watch TV on the sofa until Monday… He kind of has a point."

"Do you feel boring?"

Quinn frowned. "I don't know. I didn't until he said I was, and now I can see it. He's this big personality, this social butterfly. He drives into the city several times a week. We weren't compatible, not long term, I get that now, but…"

"But?"

"I feel like there's something wrong with me? Like I shouldn't be content with the house, the village, my…books, like I'm not a typical twenty-three-year-old." Quinn wiped a hand down his face. "Like I'm not normal."

"Fuck being normal, whatever that even means."

Quinn groaned. "And I really should not be talking about this with you."

"Am I not an excellent listener?"

"You are." Quinn smirked. "But it's in—"

"—appropriate," Zane finished with a smile.

"Exactly."

Zane hummed in agreement.

"Right." Quinn slapped his palm to the table. "Let's draw a line—"

"Did he take his stuff with him?"

"Huh?"

"Damon."

Quinn frowned. "No, he said he wanted me to keep it."

"What have you done with it?"

"The bags are still stacked in the kitchen."

Zane looked him in the eye. "Burn them."

"What—no, I can't."

"You gave him the chance to take them. He didn't, so they're yours to do what you want with them. Burn them."

"That's not very good for the environment."

Zane rolled his eyes. "Okay, don't burn them. Just get rid of them. Get rid of Damon from your life."

"For someone who's never had a relationship, you know a lot about breaking up."

"I told you. I study people, I observe. I see what they don't. My mum left her stuff, and my dad kept her dressing room like a shrine. It had power over him, just like Damon's belongings have power over you. He's left them there for that reason."

"Maybe you're right."

Zane stared intently into Quinn's eyes. "Oh, I am, and there's nothing wrong with you. People change. It happens. We're supposed to change, but Damon, I think he's stuck living in the past, wanting to relive the glory days. Forget about him, you do you."

"The study…" Quinn said, glancing down at the sheet on the table.

"The study," Zane repeated.

"Today, I want to ask about alcohol."

"Fire away."

"When was the first time you had a drink?"

Zane shrugged. "Sixteen. My dad let me try his gin."

"And you liked it?"

"It was disgusting, still think it is. I remember I walked into a pub at twenty-four to use the bathroom. Went to wash my hands, and the water came out too fast, soaked my shirt and my trousers. I left the pub, and what did I read in the papers the next morning? How I've gone off the wagon, and my drinking's out of control."

"The press makes up stuff all the time."

"But it was relentless. They saw me as a drinker, so a drinker is what I became."

Quinn scrunched up his brow. "Why? Why listen to the labels people give you?"

"It's funny, you listened to Damon when he called you boring."

"We're not talking about Damon…"

"You're a hypocrite, Quinn."

"How am I a hypocrite?"

"These checklists and questions. You're working through them to label me as something, aren't you?"

Quinn froze, and Zane grinned, then wagged his finger.

"See, you label, the same as everyone else."

"Mine's based on psychology, science, not tabloid news."

Zane grunted. "I don't have a problem with alcohol. I drank occasionally, but I never had too much to lose sight of what was around me."

"Not an alcoholic."

"No. If I wanted to drink while I was in here, trust me, I could."

"You're not allowed alcohol."

Zane rolled his eyes. "Don't be so na?ve. My turn."

"That's not how this works," Quinn said, gesturing to the sheet.

"It's how we work," Zane replied. "Do you drink?"

"Not often. I went to the pub where I live a few times, but it's pricy."

"What's the pub called?"

Quinn rubbed his chin. "I don't actually know. I think it's got Queen in it."

Zane's eyes glinted. "How interesting."

"Is it?" Quinn said.

"You live in Water Hollow."

Quinn sat bolt upright in his chair. He glared at Zane, and Zane stared back, grinning ear to ear.

"How do you know that—"

"And you live on the west side of the village. The east is an industrial estate."

Quinn's heart thrashed against his ribs. "How do you know? Have you got someone following me?"

"No, don't be ridiculous."

"There's loads of pubs with Queen in the name. There's no way you got where I lived from that."

Zane frowned. "You said you were impressed about the watch."

"I also said you were scary. Is this a case of saying random villages and seeing how I react?"

"If it were, it would've been a very good first guess…"

"Tell me how."

Zane released a slow breath through his nose, then leaned over the table. "One-lane road to work. A broken-down tractor. Fields behind your house to look at the sky. A crumbled church in need of restoration. The Queen's Head pub. All pieces of a puzzle, and I've put them together. You live in Water Hollow."

"Street name, house number?"

"I don't know them, but give me a chance and I'm sure I can find out."

"Why find out? Why work out where I live?"

Zane shrugged. "Boredom. Curiosity. Anticipation."

"Anticipation?"

"I look forward to seeing your reaction."

"Was my reaction what you were hoping for?"

Zane's smile faltered, then faded completely. "Not really. You look frightened, which wasn't my intention."

"Then what were you hoping for?"

"You to be impressed, I suppose."

"You like people to think you're clever, don't you?" Quinn accused.

Zane looked away. "I guess…"

"You are, but you're scary too."

"How am I scary? I can't just turn up in your village…can I?"

"No, no, you can't," Quinn whispered, but his stomach churned uncomfortably.

"I didn't mean to freak you out, Quinn. I'm not planning anything."

"Good. I…I think you should go back to your cell."

"Do you want me to go?" Zane asked.

Quinn hesitated. They had twenty minutes left of their session. He checked the clock and his watch to confirm it.

"Why psychology?"

Quinn glanced back at Zane after his question. "I find it interesting."

"I did business studies at university, but I had a friend who did psychology. I sometimes went to his lectures; they were far more interesting than mine. Piaget, Freud, Skinner…" He turned his head. "Why do you find the darker aspects of psychology more interesting?"

"Who says I find it more interesting?"

Zane smiled. "You're here. Your study involves killers."

"I guess I want to understand why a person would kill." He shrugged. "What drives them."

"So you can stop them?"

"I think preventing something starts with understanding it. You need a pattern, or a marker, to be able to intervene at the right moment."

"What if not everybody fits the same pattern?"

"I don't expect them to." Quinn snorted. "But maybe enough will."

"Do I fit? This pattern you've predicted."

Quinn looked away.

"This is a heavy conversation, right?" Zane asked.

"Just a bit."

"Okay. Who's your favourite Tellytubby?"

Quinn broke into a laugh. "What?"

Zane smiled. "You have a nice laugh."

"And your compliments are getting old."

"Really?" Zane looked Quinn over. "Perhaps you're right. It's time for a new one. I love that mole under your eyelid."

Quinn blinked. "What?"

Zane pressed his finger to his under-eye in the area of Quinn's mole. "That one there, I thought it was just dirt or something the first time we met."

"Thanks."

Zane smirked. "But it's the cutest thing."

"Zane…"

"When you laugh, the skin around your eyes folds and hides it from me, but there it is again, looking cute as hell."

"It's a mole." Quinn shook his head.

"You have no idea how badly I want to touch it."

"No touching," Quinn reminded.

"I wish I could kiss it. I'd kiss all of your moles if you'd let me."

Quinn avoided Zane's gaze. "You can't say things like that."

"Well, I just did." Zane glanced at the camera. "There's no one monitoring."

"Of course, there—"

"This prison is understaffed. Your study got accepted because they're desperate for money. There's no way they have an officer watching that feed live." Zane shook his head. "The governors here, the big bosses in charge, they're gambling with your life. You do know that, right?"

"No one's done anything," Quinn whispered. "Everyone is behaving."

"It only takes one prisoner, one day, one moment."

"I need this study."

"So much so you'll put your life at risk?"

Quinn swallowed. "Yes."