Page 12 of Kiss Me Honey Honey (To Love a Psycho #2)

Chapter eleve n

I’m Not The Only One

Ryston Police HQ buzzed with the usual early evening energy. The bullpen was a hive of activity. Phones rang, keyboards clacked, and murmurs of conversations filled the open-plan space. Officers in various states of uniform shuffled between desks stacked with case files, steaming coffee mugs, and hastily scribbled notes. Whiteboards lined the walls, some filled with charts, timelines, and suspect photographs, others wiped clean, waiting for the next case to unfold.

As Kenny followed PC Jenkins through it all, he was acutely aware of the curious glances from a few detectives. He wasn’t exactly a regular fixture at HQ, but his presence wasn’t uncommon either. And it usually meant they needed help on a case that wasn’t so cut and dry. His sharp blazer and academic demeanour made him stand out amidst the sea of uniforms and rolled-up shirtsleeves.

Dressed in a well-tailored suit, nose buried in his dual screen PC, thumb pressed to his lips as his eyes blinked between two monitors, Jack was so immersed in his work at a corner desk he didn’t notice Kenny and Jenkins approach until Jenkins cleared her throat .

“Boss?” Jenkins spoke cautiously, clearly aware of Jack’s aversion to being interrupted mid-thought.

Jack’s head snapped up, irritation in his eyes before recognition softened his expression. “Ken—Dr Lyons.” He stood, smoothing down his tie.

Kenny tapped his laptop bag. “I’ve got something I think you’ll want to look at.”

Jack arched a brow, then nodded to Jenkins. “Thank you, Jenkins.”

She gave a polite smile and retreated to her desk.

“Literally just seen your email,” Jack said. “Not had time to dissect it.”

“Came straight from work as soon as I could. I’ve got to see my mum, so if you want the chance to discuss, better do it now.”

Jack gestured toward a glass-walled conference room along the side of the bullpen. “Let’s talk in there.”

Utilitarian but functional, the conference room was where many a briefing had taken place. The large rectangular table dominated the space, surrounded by black leather chairs, one wall taken up entirely by a whiteboard littered with hastily erased notes and diagrams. A stack of old case files sat in a corner, and the faint scent of dry-erase markers lingered in the air. Jack closed the door behind them, the click of glass meeting metal sealing them in. He motioned to a chair, and Kenny sat, setting his laptop bag on the table. From it, he withdrew the neatly organised file, its contents freshly printed and still warm to the touch, then pushed it across the table.

Jack took the file, flipping it open. “Busy weekend for you, then?”

Kenny gave a dry smile, ignoring the sudden jolt to his pulse at exactly how he’d spent that weekend. “You’re not the only one who burns the midnight oil.”

Jack skimmed the first page before glancing back up. “So, what am I looking at? ”

“It’s a behavioural hypothesis,” Kenny said, his tone slipping into the measured cadence he used in lectures. “I’ve been piecing together what we know about Connie Bishop’s death. And the previous cases you mentioned, the girls found under similar circumstances. Based on the pathology reports and what we know of their social interactions, I think I have a clear profile of the killer’s motivations.”

Jack gave Kenny his full attention. “Go on.”

“The toxin used is fast-acting, virtually undetectable, and administered to leave no immediate signs of foul play. Based on the symptoms described in the report—dizziness, rapid loss of consciousness—it’s highly likely the victims were exposed through direct contact. Skin absorption is a possibility, but there’s a more plausible method.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. “What’s that?”

“Kissing.” That single word dropped like a stone in the room. “I believe the killer applied the toxin to their own lips or used an intermediary. A balm or substance that transfers easily through contact.”

Jack blinked. “You think the killer kissed them to death?”

“I know it sounds insane, but if you read my report, it’ll start to make sense. And you will have to check with Chong on this theory as I haven’t had time to delve into the science of it apart from speaking to a Professor of Natural Sciences at Ryston. The killer has to understand the toxin’s properties. How much to apply, how quickly it works, and how to avoid exposure themselves. But this isn’t a crime of passion or opportunity. It’s clinical. Whoever’s behind this is meticulous, possibly practiced.”

“Practiced?”

“Oh, yes. They’ll have to be. They would have tried many other methods before landing on this one as their preferred. So I’d urge you to check through other unexplained deaths, and near misses, of young people with no underlying health issues. I’d also suggest looking into animal deaths. Maybe check with vets, the RSPCA. He’s a scientist. He would have experimented.”

“Jesus.” Jack tapped the file with a finger. “And the victims? Why these girls?”

“If I had to guess, the selection isn’t random. It’s specific, but not in a way that’s immediately obvious. Yes, they’re young girls. Attractive. And they each had a rose with them. It’s possible the rose was a decoy, not a calling card this time. A distraction method. A way to create a sense of intimacy or trust before the real delivery. These girls will mean something to him. But it isn’t sexual. There’s no deviancy. You’d have to do some more digging on the victims, as there’s not enough in what you gave me to figure out what they represented for him. As it’s not obvious sexual gratification, it’s got to be something else.”

Jack nodded slowly. “Do you think he’s likely to strike again? Soon?”

“Highly likely. The longer he gets away with it, the longer you have no suspects, the more likely he’ll get the urge to try again. This precision suggests a deep-seated need for control—over the victims, over the act itself. The killer likely feels a sense of superiority, believing they can manipulate life and death without consequence. It’s not just about the kill. It’s about proving they can do it flawlessly.”

“Are we certain he’s male?”

“Again, inconclusive. There’s no sign of a struggle, but the girls were heterosexual, so if we’re looking at someone who kissed them, the likelihood is he’ll be male.”

“Okay. At least we have somewhere to start rather than the nothing we had before.”

“You’ll need to cross-reference everything in there.” Kenny pointed to the file. “Events all victims attended, people they interacted with. But I wanted you to see where my thinking was going so you can tighten the net. Somewhere in that data is our killer. ”

Jack sighed, absorbing the extent of the task ahead. “And you’ll be on hand to help with the profile?”

Kenny nodded. “You know where to find me.”

Jack tipped back in his chair, clasping his hands over his stomach, a deceptively casual posture, though his gaze pinned Kenny. It wasn’t his DI professional stance, as if he’d put that aside to let Jack creep out. “So, you’re feeling better?”

“Sorry?”

“Friday.” Jack cocked his head. “You ran out at dinner.”

Kenny rubbed his forehead, scanning for the alibi he’d offered. What had he said, and to whom? He was tired of spinning plates while keeping his footing. “Oh, right. Yeah. No.” He stopped there before uttering more lies. He didn’t owe Jack an explanation, not anymore. “Emergency. Sorry if I cut the evening short. Was nice meeting Fraser properly.”

That should appease him. Although Jack’s expression didn’t shift. Instead, his eyes sharpened, the smile from earlier slipping into something more cutting. So Kenny stood, hooking his laptop bag over his shoulder, ready to leave the scrutiny of Jack’s stare behind.

But Jack’s voice, tight and accusatory, stopped him in his tracks. “You told him.”

Ah . Shit. “No, I didn’t.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “So Fraser just took it upon himself to go out and buy a fucking children’s book and ask if he could read me a bedtime story, did he?”

“He asked my advice.” Kenny didn’t rise to the bait.

“Stay out of my marriage, Kenny.”

“Gladly.” Kenny’s tone was a blade. “I don’t want in your marriage. I’d rather your husband didn’t seek me out for advice you should’ve given him yourself.”

Jack surged forward, prodding his chest, then pointing at Kenny. “That was between you and me.”

“And I didn’t tell him anything about us . Fraser asked how he could help you relax. I gave a professional recommendation, not a confession. What he did with that information is up to him. It’s called communication, Jack. You might want to try it.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You didn’t leave Friday because you were sick. Nor that bullshit about your mum. It was him, wasn’t it? He called you that night.”

Kenny didn’t answer, and he turned toward the door.

“You’re being played.” Jack’s words were like the lash of a whip.

Kenny spun, fury flaring in his chest to defend his actions. “He was roofied. He has no one else to call. What was I supposed to do? Leave him on the street?”

“Roofied?”

“Yes. At a student party.”

“There’s been no report of that coming in over the weekend.”

“Of course there hasn’t,” Kenny snapped. “Because, believe it or not, Jack , he doesn’t trust the police. I can’t fathom why . Can you?”

Jack chewed on his bottom lip. “Or maybe he didn’t report it because he knows we’d do a thorough investigation.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Jack straightened, body language shifting like a chess player locking down the board. “For someone who specialises in human behaviour, you’re blind when it comes to him. Think about it. He called, knowing you’d come running. It’s a tactic. He’s embedding himself in your life to gain leverage. You’re being played .”

Kenny stepped forward. “And that there, what you just said and what you’re thinking right now, that’s exactly why he doesn’t trust people like you. You’ve already decided he’s the villain based on his heritage.”

Jack’s voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “Didn’t you? In your original assessment? ”

The words hit like a sucker punch, knocking the air from Kenny’s lungs.

“Fuck you, Jack.” Kenny yanked open the door, glass rattling as he stormed out.

He left HQ, getting into his car, rage boiling over, then checked his phone, the text from Aaron still sitting there with the one word, cheat . Aaron was right. He had cheated. Having asked his PhD student to deliver his lecture so he could take the visiting lecturers on their tour, he’d avoided confronting him. But now, he wanted to see him. Because he’d yank Aaron up by the shirt Kenny had washed and ironed for him over the weekend, and make him promise he hadn’t either roofied himself or made the whole thing up entirely.

He hated Jack for planting that seed.

What he hated more, though, was having seen Aaron with Taylor in the library. Adding that to Jack’s hypothesis, it gnawed on his mind like a maggot burrowing inside his brain, leaving trails of doubt all over his frontal cortex. If Aaron believed Taylor had tried to take advantage of him, had drugged him in order to make him pliable, then why would he be sitting with him for a cosy chat in the library? Knowing Aaron and his penchant for wanting to goad Kenny, he might think he was doing it to get a rise out of him for not having been there in his lecture. But Aaron couldn’t have known Kenny would be at the library at that precise time. It had been impromptu. A favour to the department to show the visiting lecturers around. Thus, Aaron would have been there with Taylor, whether Kenny stumbled on them or not.

All that just made Jack’s voice louder.

So, drowning it all out, he focused on the other personal tasks he needed to complete.

One was to visit his mum. He hadn’t all weekend in favour of other things, and so he drove to the nursing home expecting to be berated for his no show on Sunday. Instead, his mum barely registered him. His hope she would even remember who he was, once again dashed. She was drifting too far into the dark now. But he stayed with her for a while in her room, brushing her hair, and talking to her about the piano, hoping to spark something. In her, that was. Not in him, despite him seeing Aaron’s fingers tinkering over his mother’s ivory, making the instrument come alive again. But all his mother said was how Jessica had her grade five coming up and she should practise. So Kenny left her in the past. It was a far better place for her to be, one where her daughter was alive and well with only thoughts of her piano exams. He kissed her cheek before driving home to tackle the next overhanging problem.

When he let himself in, the house immediately smelled of Aaron. So much so he had to check he wasn’t still there. He wasn’t. But he’d left the bed a mess, so Kenny stripped it, shoving the sheets and duvet cover in the utility room washing machine, then couldn’t procrastinate any longer.

Loosening his tie, he switched on the coffee machine. As he waited, he checked the phone message again. That one word. Cheat . He composed a reply. Then stopped. Deleted it. Restarted it. He had a thousand and one things to say. To ask . But putting them into the ether, where it could potentially come back to bite him on the arse, was a stupid move. He needed to tread far more carefully than he currently was.

Kenny knew the stakes were higher than they seemed on the surface. A relationship with a student wasn’t illegal, nor was it grounds for automatic dismissal. Technically, as long as it was declared and managed appropriately, it wasn’t even a clear breach of university policy. Professors and students were adults, after all, and nature often had a way of ignoring boundaries. Plenty of academics had crossed that line before him, and plenty would after. That was the reality of human connections within an institution brimming with thousands of individuals.

But none of that comforted Kenny. Because for all the technicalities and loopholes, the situation was rife with complications going beyond the paperwork. The power imbalance alone was damning. No matter how mutual their feelings might be, Kenny would always hold an implicit authority over Aaron. His grades, his references, even the way other faculty perceived him. All could be called into question the moment whispers of their involvement spread. The optics were damning, even if the intentions weren’t.

If word got out, HR would haul him in faster than he could draft an email to explain himself. Because the ethical line wasn’t just blurred. He’d obliterated it. Even the perception of favouritism—whether true or not—could dismantle his credibility among colleagues and students alike. His lectures, once brimming with eager attendees, could become battlegrounds of scepticism and judgment. The career he’d built brick by brick, lecture by lecture, might crumble overnight.

And this wasn’t just any student. It was Aaron. A man who, for all his intelligence and wit, carried an enormity of trauma and complexity, making the situation infinitely more dangerous. Aaron wasn’t a quiet fling or a casual romance. He was a storm. A force Kenny couldn’t help being drawn to, even as it threatened to rip his carefully curated life apart.

What Kenny risked wasn’t just his job or reputation. It was the very framework of his identity. The ethical foundation he’d built his career on would be called into question. He’d no longer be Dr Kenneth Lyons, the respected criminal psychologist, the man who dissected the behaviour of others with precision and poise. He’d become a cautionary tale—a professor who let his personal life consume his professional one. Because Aaron wasn’t any student. He was the son of the most notorious serial killers of recent times, whose case Kenny had built his entire career on.

But then there was Aaron himself. And his words, intoxicated and exposed, burning into Kenny’s soul. “I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you.”

No sooner had the coffee machine gurgled into life, than the doorbell rang. So Kenny had to leave Aaron’s message unanswered to answer the door instead.

When he opened it, he blinked. “Heather?”

“Hi.” She smiled, all wide and lovely. Exactly who she was. “I was passing and thought I’d drop this back.” She held up his jacket. “You left it on Friday when you rushed out to your mum.”

“Right. Thanks.” Kenny took it. “Sorry I left in such a hurry.”

“That’s okay. I understand. Everything okay?”

“No.” Kenny laughed at himself. There was honesty for you.

“Have you got time for a coffee? I wanted to talk to you on Friday, but…” She bit her lip in hope. “It’s Alice and her therapy. I’ve a few concerns.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah…I’m sure it’s nothing. But Alice has said a few things about her session with Dr Riley and I don’t know if it’s…well, normal.”

“Right. Okay. Sure.” Kenny fumbled, then opened the door. “Come in. I just made coffee.”

“Great. Thanks.” She skipped inside.

“Go take a seat in the living room. Your usual?”

“Please. Really appreciate this.”

Kenny watched her make her way into the lounge before heading to the kitchen. He grabbed two mugs, his thoughts turning over her words. Heather didn’t panic easily. If she was worried about Alice’s therapy, it was worth paying attention. Especially as he had been the one to source the therapist for Alice. The same one who was working through everything with Aaron. So if there was a problem, he needed to know it.

He carried the mugs into the living room, Heather already perched on the edge of the couch, fidgeting with the strap of her handbag. “Here you go.” He set her coffee down and sat across from her on the coffee table to give her his full attention. “What’s on your mind?”

Heather took a sip, hesitating before speaking. “It’s probably silly. Alice has been working through a lot since… well, everything that happened. And Dr Riley’s been wonderful, really. But lately, Alice’s been saying things that sound…” She paused, searching for the right word. “…detached. Like she’s rehearsing lines or trying to say what she thinks people want to hear.”

Kenny frowned. “Detached how?”

“She mentioned something about ‘pushing through triggers’ but then made a joke about how it’s just like ignoring the voices in your head and pretending they’re not there.” Heather’s voice wavered. “It didn’t feel right. I’m worried she’s trying to minimise what she’s feeling, and I don’t know if that’s coming from her, or if it’s something happening in the sessions.”

“It’s not unusual for trauma survivors to mask their emotions or intellectualise their feelings. Sometimes it’s a defence mechanism, sometimes it’s a response to therapy techniques. But it’s worth discussing with Dr Riley. Maybe Alice is feeling pressured to make faster progress than she’s ready for?”

“That’s what I’m worried about.” Heather twisted the mug in her hands. “I don’t want her to think she has to ‘fix’ herself or rush through anything. I mean, she survived something horrific. Terrible. That has to take a long time to process, right?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“And the voices in her head comment just made me uneasy. She’s never said anything like that before. Isn’t that…like, what crazy people say?”

Kenny leaned forward, trying to mask his twitching eye from the flippancy of the word ‘crazy’. “I know that term gets thrown around a lot, but it’s not helpful. Especially not for someone like Alice, who’s working through something as complex as trauma. Comments like hearing voices aren’t necessarily a sign of anything more concerning. They can just be a way of trying to make sense of her emotions or experiences. Humour or exaggeration is often a shield. A way to cope with feelings that feel too big or overwhelming to express directly.”

“So…she’s not…going mad?”

“No. The fact she’s talking about it at all—even if it’s in a joking way—could actually be a good sign. It means she’s engaging with her therapy, even if it’s on her terms. But if it’s making you uneasy, that’s valid, and it’s worth bringing up with Dr Riley. The goal isn’t to rush Alice into being ‘okay.’ It’s meeting her where she is and making sure she feels safe in that process.”

Heather exhaled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “Thank you. I just… I needed to hear that it’s okay to ask questions.”

“Always.” Kenny smiled. “You’re her advocate. And if you want, I can speak with Dr Riley about it. Sometimes having a peer-to-peer discussion can shed light on things without putting Alice on the spot.”

“That would be amazing. If you think it won’t overstep?”

“Not at all. I’ll reach out tomorrow.”

“I don’t know what I did without you sometimes.” Heather edged forward, sliding a hand on his knee and squeezing.

Kenny tried to slip away from her touch without causing a scene, but the sound of a key crunching in his lock, the front door opening and a rapscallion voice booming through the walls worked better than his light approach ever would.

“So you’re here then, you dirty fucking cheat !” Aaron then bolted into the living room, phone in hand, eyes wide as he took in the scene. Heather’s hand on Kenny’s leg. Her leaning into him. Eyes widening at Aaron.

Aaron glanced from Kenny to Heather, then rammed his phone into his back pocket, spun and ran, the front door slamming after .

Heather removed her hand from Kenny’s leg, eyebrows drawn as if figuring out what had just happened. “Was that…?”

Kenny stood, rushing out to the hallway and yanking open the door but Aaron was long gone. So he ventured back to the lounge, raking a hand through his hair, unsure how he could psychobabble his way out of this one.

“That’s…” Heather fell back on the sofa. “The boy who rescued Alice?” She looked at him for clarification. “Isn’t he your… student ?” Her expression slipped into her schoolteacher mode when asking who threw the chalk.

“He attends Ryston, yes.” Feeble. Really damn feeble.

“Why does he have a key to your house?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.” At least that was true. He knew how he did, but the why would only be a theory.

“I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you.”

“Are you and he…?”

“I’ve been helping him.” Kenny grappled to keep up his professional training with the truth he wanted to protect. “Since last year. He went through a lot, too. And had a difficult life before then. Trauma has shaped how he navigates the world and relationships. He trusts me, and I’ve tried to provide support beyond the classroom.”

“Don’t you think that’s crossing a line? How are you separating from being his teacher and…whatever this is?”

“I’ve allowed boundaries to blur, yes. It’s a flaw in my judgment, but it’s not malicious. It’s human. And it’s not what you think it is.”

Yes. It was.

He knew it. She knew it. Jack knew it. Eventually, everyone would know it, and it was why he had to sort it out before it ruined him.

Heather cocked her head. “You care about him, don’t you?”

Kenny exhaled, the truth pressing down on him. “More than I should. ”

Heather stood and grabbed her bag. “Then I hope you figure out what the hell you’re doing before it destroys you.”

“So do I.”

With that, she walked out, leaving Kenny alone with the silence, and the havoc hanging in the air like a storm cloud ready to burst.

Exactly like Aaron fucking Jones.