Page 7 of Kane

But those moments; that future, doesn’t exist for a man like me, and it’s best I remember that. Lest I want to end up with a stage five clinger on my hands. Which is why I need to get the hell out of here as fast as I can, so that we both avoid the awkward morning after conversation I can feel percolating between us.

I make a point to avoid his gaze as I pick up my clothes off the floor.

“You… in a hurry?” he asks carefully.

I give him my back as I fasten the button on my jeans, grunting out an acknowledgement.

“Always,” I mutter, trying to remember every detail from last night, but… it’s still hazy. Though there are enough bits and pieces, I can string together what happened, and even if I couldn’t—the sheets smelling like sex and sweat and waking up naked is enough to cement the truth.

“Lemme guess… you have to head out for work or you’re going to be late?” he asks, his voice empty. I hate this sort of thing; which is why I also try to avoid sleeping with people if I can help it. I might not do relationships well, but that doesn’t mean I’m one of those guys who enjoys going home with a different guy all the time.

Quite the opposite, actually.

And maybe there’s a part of me that knows that; commiserates with it, even.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice sharp and firm. Occupational hazard, I guess. I expect him to try to make small talk; I’m relieved when he doesn’t.

“Well, this was fun,” I say as I grab my phone out of my back pocket; noting it’s almost dead. Five fucking percent. Just great.

Then I notice the time.

Shit!

It’s nearing ten o’clock, which means I have therapy in a fucking hour!

“But I—”

“Yeah, I know,” the guy says, his smirk fading. “Not my first rodeo.”

My heart breaks a little at his admission; part of me wanting to know who hurt him. But it won’t change anything.

Pain is inevitable. The only way to not let it consume you is to learn how to control it, how to use it to your advantage.

“You really should get that ceiling checked out,” I say as an alert chimes on my phone.

A new DNA match has been found!

I freeze, staring at the alert from FamilyTr33, the app I downloaded two years ago.

Hope and fear swell in my chest.

Is this it? Have I finally found what I’ve been looking for?

Chapter Two

Kane

The only reason I know that I have half-siblings out there, in this vast mecca of chaos, is because of a file I found years ago; by accident, in Jasper’s home office. I don’t even remember what I was looking for at the time, but I remember the moment I moved something over and a stack of papers fell to the floor. I picked them up, and it just… fell out. Sometimes I think it was fate. Other times, I think it was the opposite of a blessing. There, in plain printed type, in my hands were phone records between Jasper and some woman named Veronica. He’s never spoken of her, and she wasn’t mentioned in relation to my mother’s murder, nor is she listed as one of my dad’s twelve “roses”. The fancy moniker that true crime enthusiasts and his “fans” gave to his victims. I hate it. Not only is it pretentious, but it detracts from the truth of what he did; makes it seem romantic or something.

My father killed twelve women. On purpose.

I’ll never understand why he did it, nor do I want to. Understanding the mind of a killer is beyond sane comprehension. And while I’m not a detective by any means, following my mother’s murder and my father’s arrest, I was fostered and adopted by one of New York City’s finest, and soon enough I found it was impossible not to soak up some of his obsession with the details, too. Make no mistake, Jasper is not my father, and I’m not grateful for what he did. I can’t be. My mother’s dead because of him—because she trusted him.

Because she was pregnant with his kid, just like my father accused her of being, and she thought he was her white knight in shining armor.

Detective Jasper Carson ruined my life, and there’s nothing he could do, apart from doing what he should have done a long time ago.

Kill the fucking bastard.