EPISODE XII.
I had barely started to stir out of my slumber when I heard a light knock on the door. Sitting up, I stretched and yawned out that I was awake, and it was okay for my knocker to enter. Despite my assurance, Izayah still came in tentatively, granting me more time to get decent before I was ready to see him.
"How'd you sleep?" he groaned, voice raspy from disuse. Judging by his disheveled clothing, ruffled hair, and half-open eyes, he just slid out of bed.
"Great," I answered, telling him nothing but the truth. While I was terrified of what I found in his closet, I also trusted that Izayah wouldn't hurt me. We were on the same team, and I really hoped that with time, he would tell me the explanation about his link to Declan and what it meant when he said you killed "Dad." Not my dad or your dad – but Dad – a shared figure. But for now, I'd listen to Izayah's advice from last night. He said we needed to be more covert, and he's right.
"Do you want me to make breakfast or lunch food?"
I studied the circles of darkness beneath his eyes and frowned. "You're still tired," I pointed out. "We can just order in. I'll pay."
"I'll pay. What do you want?" Already, he was fishing his phone out of his pocket.
"You're giving me your room, the least I can do is buy my own food," I snapped, not liking the feeling of being a burden.
"I'm ordering what I want and paying for it, and if you happen to see something you like on the table, help yourself," he slyly cornered, dialing a number on his phone.
"Why are you doing all of this for me?"
Izayah held the phone to his ear, leaning against the doorframe. At that question, the exhaustion dissipated from his glassy eyes and all of his attention was solely on me. It was enough to wipe my brain clear of all thoughts except for one: who are you?
Whoever was on the other line answered, ripping Izayah from his position in the doorway and leading him into the living room.
Recollecting my composure, I eyed Izayah's closet, and borrowed some of his fresh clothes to change into after a shower. As the steamy water rolled down my face, I mentally worked out a plan. Izayah wanted covert? I'll give him covert. While I handle Lucas, I'll be checking out Izayah's ties to Declan. I could start with Declan himself – asking about his family, about Izayah – but not about the letters. Those letters were my absolute last resort to reveal when I most needed them. The instant Izayah caught a whiff about what I discovered, I know he'd feel betrayed; not that I found them, but I didn't confront him about it.
I could also go to Dumois and explain parts of my situation. I could feign apprehension that Izayah is a monster, mimic concern for Declan, and get information. She has a personal vendetta against Izayah for what he did to her son – it couldn't be that hard.
And if even that doesn't work, I can hunt for Mr. O'Connor's obituary, gleam information from there, and seek out those who knew him, his son, or Izayah Parker.
By the time I finished showering, I felt refreshed and determined. Bruises and a cut on my forehead reminded me of the helplessness I felt last night, but I felt none of that in my spirit. Walking out with renewed purpose, I spy Izayah accepting Thai takeout with enough boxes to last us through a zombie apocalypse.
Placing them on the table in front of the couch, Izayah rips out a pair of chopsticks and starts digging in. I follow suit, settling next to him. The moment my hand reaches for pad thai, he murmurs, "It's gonna cost you."
Finally. "How much do I owe you?" I pose, remembering I put my wallet on his nightstand.
"You'll see," he eerily croons, half his mouth curling into a sneer.
"Do I have to watch you eat until then?" I growl.
"You can eat now, as long as you accept the price."
"Sounds risky," I hum. As if these past few days haven't been risky enough. But if I can handle this week, I can handle a request from Izayah. "Count me in."
Luxury Suites, 8:00 PM
The rest of the day was considerably calm. We talked about everything besides murders, death, and Izayah's complicated past. I was surprised at how easy it was to converse with him – not as some investigative cohort, or acquaintance with ties to suspects – but as a friend. Conversation flowed and things never got awkward. If anything, things got too comfortable, and I found myself wishing I could erase all the red flags about Izayah Parker – make the letters disappear, burn his criminal record, repair the scars on his knuckles. That way it would make me less daunted to see what would happen if I leaned in too close, if I let my hand brush his, if my eyes lingered on his mouth just a second longer than necessary.
We half-heartedly binged on Thai food until the sun set, and because we slept in today, we were both wide awake.
At least, I was. Izayah has bags under his eyes, but he seems alert. Still, I ask, "Did you not sleep well on the couch?"
Waving me off as he makes his way to the entertainment stand and rifles through movies, he calls back, "I'm used to sleeping in far worse places. I was just...worried last night."
"Worried?" I echo, wondering if he remembered putting me in the room with his hidden letters and it ate away at him.
"Yeah," he sighs, sounding lethargic. He pauses skimming the spines of movie cases and heaves a breath, shoulders sagging. "I was worried that, maybe because we saved you, we disturbed the killer's routine. And last time we did that..." he lets the sentence drift away, more for my sake than his. I know he has absolutely no qualms about recalling morbid activity, but we both know that gore is the last thing I want to revisit after being locked in with a dead body. "I stayed up for a while, making sure nobody was going to come and try anything."
Frowning, I imagine him huddled on the couch, eyes plastered to the door, scared that someone would come after him for helping me. "You should've just taken your room," I insist. "You shouldn't be scared to sleep in your own home."
Tossing me a perplexed expression, Izayah shakes his head. "I didn't think someone was going to attack me. I was nervous they'd come back and finish the job."
Flushed at the immense consideration, I force a grateful smile on my face. He won't hurt me. We stare at each other for too long, our gazes eating away at each other, trying to say the things our mouths won't. Realizing and being discomforted with it first, Izayah turns away and busies himself with inserting a disc into the player. He won't hurt me, but he'll hide from me. He'll hide his secrets, his past, and his thoughts. How can I get him to open up to me?
Turning off the lights, Izayah snags a warm, woolly blanket from the second couch and flops down at the opposite end of me. "What movie did you put in?" I question, shoving away my inner interrogation and keeping myself in the moment of being a casual friend.
"'Tis the year of Keanu Reeves, so I thought a little bit of old school 'Point Break' would be a good start. Is that good with you?"
"Of course," I exclaim, trying not to sound too excited. Keanu Reeves will always be a classic favorite, and anyone who disagrees can fight me.
"Good," he purrs, gaze glinting with something clever and devious. Shifting a bit, I wonder what is causing the flame flickering behind his dark irises. "Get comfy, it's two hours long." I take his advice and stretch my feet across the coffee table and lean back into the well-cushioned couch. "Perfect."
Laying down, Izayah splays himself over his couch, consuming all of its space, including me. Soft tendrils of soft, raven-black waves tickle my legs as he nestles his head into me. Corded arms stretch out before one curls against himself, and the other drapes along my thigh. I stiffen at the sudden contact, but don't dare move. It's not that I don't like it, but I don't want Izayah to think I don't.
"I'm assuming this is the cost of food?" I tease, snatching a curl and giving it a tug.
"Just like old times."
Snorting, I almost find humor in "old times" being just over a week ago. But I let a lazy smile linger on my face as the introduction to the film begins, my hands still threaded through Izayah's hair. When I realize it, I retract my fingers, when he pushes his head back against them. Taking that as my cue, I slither them back in and keep my eyes on the screen, at least acting like I'm paying attention to the movie. This is just to pay him off for buying food, I tell myself, though I find my own mind to be very unconvincing.
Rather than focus on the classic cinematography of the early 90s and the stellar acting of all-star performers, I am consumed by the silkiness of Izayah's full head of hair, the smoothness of his palm on my legs, the small puffs of his breath that brush against my skin. I constantly remind myself that this is a price to pay for the food he bought – not a reward for...for whatever.
Luxury Suites, 10:00 AM
The next morning, Izayah woke me up from the bed in his room to tell me he was going to run some errands. At my questioning look, he clarified he was on the hunt for things groceries and school supplies, then asked if I wanted anything else. I shook my head. In case I decided to go get anything on my own, anyways, he left me with a spare key to his apartment. Perfect.
The instant the front door closed, I was up and on my feet. I threw on something presentable, tied my hair up, dialed up an Uber, and headed for the police station. I need to be fast and back before Izayah has any idea that I'm sniffing around about it. If I slip up, any trust between us is out the door, and in these times when I so desperately need an ally, losing Izayah isn't an option.
The ride is no more than 15 minutes long, giving me enough time to check my phone and see exactly one missed call from Kat. She isn't sending me a frenzy of messages because she's either guilty about letting me slip out of her sights and into the hands of an attacker, or she's upset that I've chosen Izayah to take care of me over her. I contemplate giving her a ring, or shooting her a text to let her know I'm alive, but I end up deciding against it. I have bigger things to worry today.
I walk into the quaint police headquarters, and it's as if Dumois smells my entrance because before I'm even at the main desk, she's marching out of her office. "Well, well, well," she announces, wiry hair pulled into a bun so tight it smooths out some of the wrinkles on her face. Maybe that's the point. "I figured you'd be here, sooner or later. You're here about the Parker boy, aren't you?"
"Sort of," I murmur, eyeing the other officers who blatantly listen in on our conversation. "Can we talk in private?"
"My office," Dumois instructs, waving me along and retreating into her corner room. I shut the door behind me and take a seat across the woman. Her gaze is piercing with a hint of ostentatious, as if she had placed money on the idea of me coming back for help. "So?"
I figure the chief is a fan of bluntness and I don't have time to lollygag, so I get right to it. "Declan O'Connor and Izayah Parker," I begin. Just the mention of their names together has an effect on Dumois, who ever-so-slightly leans forwards and grimaces. "How are they related?"
Dumois folds her hands and scrutinizes me, her index finger tapping against the top of her other hand. Silence extends long enough that I wonder not only if she won't tell me the answer, but if she won't speak, either. I can't lose this opportunity. I can only ask her about this once. Any other visits about those two would just be downright strange. Fixating my gaze, I stare her down, doing my best to match her intensity. I need to show her that I'm not budging.
"You really don't know?" Dumois leers. "You two seemed so close before, I thought you knew everything about each other and were getting married next weekend."
"If being close is what it takes to know the answer, then how do you know?"
"An officer is still an officer, Miss Evans," she sighs. "Izayah and Declan are brothers."
I'm struck, but not noticeably. I suspected a radical tie like that when Declan called his father simply "Dad" to Izayah. "Step-brothers?" I pry, recalling no similar traits shared between the two of them.
"Half," she corrects, stunning me.
Gaping, I lose my poker face when I ask, "On which side?"
"That's not really my place to tell you," Dumois shuts down. "Telling you their relation seeing as how involved you seem to be with them is, but the details? Not so much. I still have a job I want to keep."
My first reaction is to assume their father is what relates them, but then again, plenty of people call their step-parents "Mom" or "Dad." My second reaction is more of a question: what happened to the parent out of Izayah's life? Did Declan's father die so Izayah's could take his place? Or was that a death that occurred after their union?
Perhaps Dumois will tell me something about Mr. O'Connor?
"What happened to Declan's father?" I interrogate, voice sounding smaller than I meant it to.
Frowning, Dumois looks ready to put up another fight. "Why don't you ask him?"
"He doesn't seem to want to talk about it..." Dumois doesn't look propelled into action to dish out any details. I haven't sold her on my cause...or any cause, yet. "There's something between Izayah and Declan, and I'm worried it might have something to do with why the murders are occurring. I need to know about it so I can know how to keep myself safe. I don't want to be in the dark, Chief Dumois."
"You already know what Parker did to my son," she bitterly bites, narrowing those pale green eyes my way. Accusatorily, she glowers my way. Not trusting my voice, I stay silent and return her steely expression. "It was horrendous, yet you stay at his side."
I feather my jaw in annoyance. "And I'm here now, aren't I?"
Again, that index finger taps impatiently. Gruffly, she exhales and stands up so abruptly that her chair nearly tips back. "Wait here."
As she nearly breaks down the door upon her exit, I slouch in my chair. She could either be getting cuffs to arrest me or she could be getting something to help me. With Dumois and her constantly-pissed behavior, I can't tell which option she's swaying towards.
Until she comes back with one of her world-class manila folders, crisp edges of white papers peeking out from their cover. I sit up, taught with nervousness. What answers lie beneath the cover of that folder? Will I find myself backing away from Izayah, after all?
"Declan's father was a victim of a brutal battery incident," she mumbles, gravelly voice taking a grave tone for the situation – as it should be: somebody died. "I shouldn't really be showing you these, from a moral stance. But it isn't illegal, and if it has a chance of waking you up to the truth, then here it is."
Dumois opens the folder and slides it to me, gory pictures of Declan's father on full display. Declan has his father's eyes, from what I can see past the split eyelids and eyelashes clotted in blood. He might even have his jawline, if Mr. O'Connor's face wasn't swollen two times past its normal size. In fact, Mister Brian O'Connor is so battered that chunks of his hair are missing, his earlobes and stretched out, and his nose is so crooked that I wonder if it could even function at the time it was damaged and he was alive.
Gulping, I move to the next photograph. Dumois starts to explain the report, seeing as how engrossed I am with the visual explanation of Brian O'Connor's death. "You'd have thought that with all the marks on him, we'd have pinned an assailant fairly quickly," she sighs. "We had a solid lead: his son, Izayah, with a problematic background."
The body of Mr. O'Connor faired similarly to his face, if not worse. "He was beaten with what seems like a crowbar in most places, beating repeatedly in one area until the skin ruptured and the internal damage poured out in that clearly-bloody manner. Ribs, the pelvic bone, fingers and toes, and a few other bones were completely shattered. A lung was punctured, and the optic nerves were nearly unsalvageable. Many muscles were torn and the body was almost bruised beyond repair."
My breath hitches. I didn't realize how long I was looking down at the horrendous pictures until I met Dumois's eyes and my neck felt sore.
"I'm sure it's Izayah because, well, you saw his previous victim – my son. The rage and battering in the two victims were very similar; the damage so gruesome and extensive that it made their offender almost unidentifiable. Unfortunately in the O'Connor case, there's nothing solid connecting him to Izayah. But I feel it in my bones, Camry Evans."
Though I heed all of her words, I'm stuck on the few she uttered about Brian O'Connor, specifically. "You said Mister O'Connor's optic nerves were...nearly unsalvageable? His body almost bruised beyond repair?" My voice is really small now, but I'm not faulting myself for this one.
Lips curled downwards, Dumois brusquely nods. "Poor man...to take in a wolf in sheep's clothing and have him bite you like that."
"Wait, that's not what I'm confused about," I insist. "Declan's dad is...dead, isn't he?"
Furrowing her brows and scrunching her face, Dumois snaps, "No? Why would you think that?"
YOU KILLED DAD. YOU KILLED DAD. YOU KILLED DAD.
"I...well..." Quickly, I scramble for an excuse, mentally reaching for anything I can get a grip on. "Declan left to deal with the...savagery of his father. I assumed it was to mourn over death, not get away from his ailing relative. Why wouldn't Declan stay and tend to his own father?"
Dumois scoffs at me like I said something childish. "You think the kid felt safe after learning his half-brother tried to murder his father? Who is to say Declan wasn't next?"
"Who's to say it was Izayah, at all? What if it was Declan who did it, so he ran off to London?"
"Because we aren't idiots, Evans!" Dumois shouts, baring her teeth and foaming at the mouth. "That demon, Izayah Parker, is a murderer on the rise – if not one already. You know what he can do..." Pointedly, she stabs a firm finger on the pictures of Brian O'Connor. "You can either get away from him and live like a smart girl, or you can stick around and find yourself in pictures just like these. Now get out of my headquarters. We have work to do."
Huffing and exasperated breath, I spin on my heels and head for the door. My fingertips touch the knob before Dumois asks, "What happened to your forehead?"
I resist touching the gash from where I was slammed into a refrigerator shelf. "I fell," I growl, finding my deeply-buried ferocity. I throw the door open and stalk out of the building, walking down the street and sitting at a bench to calm my nerves and breathe in some much-needed fresh air.
Izayah and Declan are half-brothers. Declan left London to mourn for a father who isn't dead. Declan sent psycho-letters to Izayah claiming he killed their dad.
Does Declan not know his father is alive? Or is he with his father these days? Where is Brian O'Connor now? How soon did Declan book a ticket to London once his father was attacked? And where was Izayah, relative to his father during all of this?
There are too many holes and questions in this outline of events, and I suspect that asking Dumois for answers only left me with more inquiries.
I check the time. It's been a little over an hour since Izayah and I left the apartment. I should get back.
I take a bus and walk the rest of the way back to Izayah's apartment. I enter the parking lot, clocking the area to make sure his car isn't here and I beat him back. Thankfully, I did.
But when I eye the door to his apartment, I become a lot less thankful. An eerie silence eats up the atmosphere and a cold sweat coats my skin. The gash on my forehead throbs in memory of my last encounter with the killer.
Gritting my teeth, I glare at the ajar entryway, flooded with darkness and full of promise of something dreadful, just on the other side.