Page 15 of Kiss Me Honey Honey (To Love a Psycho #2)

chapter fourtee n

Careless Whispers

Kenny arrived at the university early on Monday, the campus shrouded in the quiet of dawn. He might as well not have gone home over the weekend, considering how much of it he’d spent working. But despite his efforts, he was drowning in neglected tasks. Overdue feedback for PhD students, administrative reports, and an ever-growing pile of reading. If he wanted to secure a professorship next year, he was going about it all wrong. Not just because of his disorganisation, but because of his preoccupation. Or if he had to call it what it was, his utter infatuation, obsession with and attraction to Aaron fucking Jones .

He still hadn’t heard from him, and Kenny considered giving up. If Aaron didn’t attend this morning’s lecture, Kenny would have no choice but to escalate the situation. Administration would issue a written warning for his poor attendance, a consequence Kenny hated but couldn’t avoid. How else was he supposed to get Aaron to realise that hiding away wasn’t the answer?

He unlocked his office, dumped his bag on the floor, and set up his laptop. While it took its sweet arse time to join the university system, Kenny left to make some coffee in the kitchenette down the hall where he found Gail, the faculty’s senior administrator, pouring milk into a bowl of cereal.

“Dr Lyons.” She smiled. “Good weekend?”

“Spent most of it working.” Kenny switched on the kettle, reaching for a jar of instant coffee.

“There’s more to life than work, Dr Lyons.” She adjusted her glasses before trotting back toward the open-plan office with her bowl of cereal.

Kenny rubbed his tired eyes, waiting for the kettle to boil. There was more to life than work. And he’d tasted it once. Last weekend. A fleeting moment of something real. Then had it ripped away again, leaving him with the familiar certainty that the only thing he truly understood was criminality. Because romance eluded him. But that was the way of the world, wasn’t it? The only certainty—death and taxes. Of which, he came across both far too often.

He carried his coffee back to his office, the faint buzz of caffeine barely cutting through his fatigue. By the time he sat down, his laptop had finally logged onto the university network, and he slipped on his glasses, preparing to tackle the onslaught of Monday morning emails.

Except this wasn’t normal.

Hundreds of unread emails clogged his inbox, and his Teams messages were overflowing. He blinked at the screen. Surely he’d cleared most of these over the weekend? Rolling his chair back, he slanted toward the open doorway. “Gail! Is there a problem with IT today?”

“Not that I know of,” she called back between a spoonful of cereal.

“Is there some kind of disaster I should know about then? Before I dive into these emails? Something I’ve missed? That I can remain ignorant of if I shut the laptop now?”

Gail shrugged, mouth full, and gave him a nonchalant wave.

Sighing, Kenny rolled himself back under the desk and opened the first email at the top of the pile, immediately catching on the subject line:

Request for Comment: Ryston Gazette Article on Child A.

His stomach dropped.

Child A?

“What the…?”

He skimmed the email, snagging on the words chilling him to the core: Child A. Howell. Campus Murders. Scrolling further, he found an attached link to a social media video posted by the Ryston Gazette and embedded with the same title. Kenny hesitated, gut sinking, but curiosity and dread compelled him to click play. The video filled his screen, the frame opening on Taylor. Aaron’s Taylor. Walking along the Ryston River, fog clinging to the air like a ghostly veil, shrouding the background in a heavy, ominous stillness. But it wasn’t the production value or Taylor’s practiced confidence freezing Kenny’s breath. It was the words spilling from his mouth as the title scrolled across the screen beneath him: The Howell Legacy: Is Child A Behind the Ryston Murders?

“A series of chilling, unexplained deaths at Ryston has left both authorities and the community grappling for answers.” Taylor’s footsteps crunched over the gravel path. “But one theory casts a sinister shadow. Could these deaths be tied to the dark legacy of Ryston’s most infamous serial killers, Frank and Roisin Howell?”

Taylor moved closer to the camera, expression sombre, but his eyes alive with the calculated energy of a performer. Or a journalist with a breaking story that would tear this town apart. “More than a decade ago, the Howells shocked the nation with their spree of brutal murders, leaving an indelible scar on Ryston. While their crimes were meticulously documented, one detail has remained shrouded in secrecy: they had a child, known only as Child A .”

Kenny’s heart thudded painfully as mugshots of Frank and Roisin Howell appeared on the screen, Taylor’s voice-over continuing as the images dissolved back onto his face.

“After their arrest, Child A vanished into the care system, identity protected by court orders. This very newspaper has been digging into where, as we believe it’s in the public’s interest to know where they are, especially those from this area who remember the harrowing ordeal and the horrific terror which enveloped the town before the Howell’s were arrested and their murderous reign ended. And now, disturbing whispers suggest that Child A has resurfaced. Right here at Ryston University. And this child may be connected to the recent spate of deaths.”

The camera cut to a wide shot of the university gates before panning back to Taylor, now hovering by the riverbank.

“Let’s examine the facts.” Taylor crouched dramatically and the screen shifted to show a photograph of Rahul Mishra, one of last year’s victims, overlaid with a caption detailing his name and the town’s tragic loss.

“Last year, a first-year student died under mysterious circumstances.” The camera panned to a makeshift memorial of wilted flowers. “Linked directly to the Howells, Rahul Mishra’s murder has opened up questions we should have all been asking: why reappear after a decade of silence?”

The camera cut back to Taylor standing, his expression grave. “One chilling possibility: Child A, now an adult, has returned to Ryston University to continue their parents’ twisted legacy. If my calculations are correct, Child A would be in their twenties. A prime age to reemerge here, at university.”

Kenny rolled his chair back instinctively, bile burning the back of his throat as Taylor moved through different scenes: Wilton village, where the Howells’ manor once stood; the derelict grounds, now overgrown and haunting in their decay.

“But the deaths haven’t stopped,” Taylor said to the screen, tone lowering to an ominous timbre. “Rahul’s killer might be behind bars, yet the murders persist. Connie Bishop, a young netballer in her prime, also met her end not so long ago.”

Taylor gestured to the ruins, now a backdrop to his sinister theory, and the screen then cut to him walking through the university library, weaving through shelves lined with psychology texts.

“Reports indicate that isolation, neglect, and exposure to unspeakable horrors marked Child A’s early years.” Taylor pulled a book from the shelf. “Research into similar cases suggests such trauma can manifest in fractured, even violent behaviour in adulthood.”

The camera zoomed in on the book’s title: The Psychology of Murder by Dr K Lyons, as Taylor flipped through the pages, brow furrowing as if he could understand or comprehend any of what was in there. “Dr Kenneth Lyons, Ryston University’s very own Associate Professor of Forensic Psychology and the criminal psychologist who helped profile Frank and Roisin Howell, has written extensively on the psychology of trauma and violence.”

“Jesus Christ.” Kenny rubbed his eyes under his glasses as if he could rub all this utter nonsense away.

The video cut to its conclusion: Taylor by the river, mist swirling around him like a scene from a gothic horror. “Though no official statements confirm a link between Child A and these deaths, the psychological profile fits alarmingly well. Could a childhood overshadowed by murder and anarchism have shaped Child A into a killer themselves? Or is this theory a dangerous distraction from the real perpetrator?

“Ryston deserves answers. If you suspect you know who Child A is, or if you have information about these tragic incidents, come forward. Our community has already suffered too much, and the truth must come out.”

Taylor inclined closer to the camera, his expression earnest but piercing. “This is Taylor Long, reporting on behalf of news editor Carly Reynolds for the Ryston Gazette . Don’t forget to hit like and subscribe for updates.”

The video ended.

Kenny rolled back in his chair, hand clasped tightly over his mouth, as he stared at the screen, the echo of Taylor’s words ringing in his ears. With a trembling hand, he checked the video’s stats. Views: hundreds of thousands. Comments: pouring in at an alarming rate. It was already viral, and soon, it would hit millions. The damage was done.

The sharp trill of his office phone jolted him. He snatched it up without thinking, barely registering the caller’s voice before the words hit him.

“Dr Lyons, this is The Sun. Do you have a comment—”

He slammed the phone down, pulse hammering in his ears.

Then his mobile vibrated in his blazer pocket. He pulled it out, ready to switch it off, when the name flashing on the screen caught his attention. Jack .

He answered, voice tight. “You’ve seen it?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, his tone grim. “I take it you have, too?”

“Just now. What the fuck?” Kenny cracked under the panic. He caught movement outside his office—the startled glance of Gail from her desk—and forced himself to stand, marching to the door and closing it with a loud click. He yanked down the blind, then leant against the door bracing for the impact. “How the fuck did this happen?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

“ Me ?!” Kenny ripped off his glasses and hurled them onto his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How the hell did the information on Child A get leaked? It’s classified! Never known to the press.”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Who even is this Taylor Long?”

Kenny closed his eyes at the realisation. “Aaron’s boyfriend— ex boyfriend. ”

“Oh, Jesus. Guess we now know how the press got it.”

“Aaron hasn’t told him who he is. Wouldn’t tell him.” Kenny tried not to sound as if he were convincing himself. “The prick isn’t even a proper journalist!”

“TikTok doesn’t care about that. Neither does the world. This story’s out there. You know what that means?”

“This could fall on Aaron.”

“Is that all you care about?”

“What else should I care about?” Kenny straightened from the door, blood boiling.

“Three people are dead. We’re no closer to finding a suspect. And the whole town—and beyond—is about to point its finger at your dirty little secret!”

Kenny froze, the words slamming into him like a physical blow. “Is that why you called? To gloat? Tell me I deserve this? Call karma.”

“I called to warn you,” Jack shot back. “Because believe it or not, Kenny , I still care about you. And I’m telling you, for your own good. Stay away from him.”

Kenny gritted his teeth. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both.”

“Christ.” Jack sounded almost wounded. “Then you’ll go down with him.”

Kenny closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to steady the turbulence raging inside him. “Believe it or not, Jack, I still trust you. I know you. And I know you won’t let an innocent young man take the fall for something he didn’t do. You’ll do what’s right. Like you always do. You’re the moral one, remember? The good one out of both of us.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, the silence heavy and taut. When Jack spoke again, his voice was quieter but no less cutting. “Then if Aaron hasn’t told him, you’d better find out who did. ”

“How could he leak it? Aaron’s not even Child A.”

“I know,” Jack replied, the words cold, almost dismissive, before the line went dead.

“Fuck!” Kenny hurled his phone at the desk, the sharp crack of glass shattering as it ricocheted off the clutter of papers and books strewn across its surface.

His thoughts swirled in a chaotic mess. Taylor’s damning video, the spiralling whispers, the inevitable storm bearing down on Aaron. And how that would overshadow the real culprit here. He chewed on his thumbnail, staring blankly at the wall, his mind racing through a way to contain the fallout.

Then his watch beeped, jolting him back to reality. Nine a.m.

“Bollocks.” He was late.

Grabbing his bag, he yanked open the office door and stormed out. He rushed down the stairs, out across campus, into the lecture block and when he burst into Lecture Theatre Two, the atmosphere was palpably different. The usual buzz of pre-class chatter was subdued, replaced by hushed voices and furtive glances. A ripple of whispers spread through the room as he strode to the front, gaze sweeping over the rows of students.

Aaron wasn’t there.

He scanned the back row again, eyes catching on Mel and hoping she would reassure him he was on his way. But she gave a subtle shrug, expression solemn. Kenny exhaled, closing his eyes to centre himself. He had a lecture to give, a room full of students waiting for him to speak. But his mind was a mess.

A voice from the middle row jolted him, “Dr Lyons!”

He snapped his eyes open as a hand shot up from the girl. “Yes?”

“Have you seen the video about Child A?”

The question hung in the air, a fuse waiting to ignite, and the room fell silent, every student turning to watch him as they waited for his response. From the tension on their faces, the whispers had already spread like wildfire. This wasn’t just curiosity. It was a demand for answers.

“Did you know there was a Howell child?” the girl pressed, gaining confidence from the group. “Is it true?”

Kenny ran a hand over his face and stepped away from the lectern, leaning back on the desk at the front of the room. Folding his arms, he stared down at the floor, chewing his bottom lip as he gathered his thoughts.

“Let this be today’s lesson,” he said, steady but edged with a tension that rippled through the room. “The media thrive on stories of good and evil. They crave villains and heroes, because those are the narratives that sell. They take fragments of truth, stitch them together with speculation, and present it as a complete picture. But often, it’s a picture that distorts reality.”

The students remained silent, his words pulling them in.

“I’m not here to validate or refute the existence of Child A,” Kenny continued, his voice hardening. “As you will learn, confidentiality is key, and any breaking of that confidentiality is career carnage. But what I will say is this: releasing speculative theories about an ongoing case is reckless. It doesn’t serve justice. It inflames fear, diverts attention from real evidence, and sabotages the very investigations meant to bring answers. Worse, it puts innocent people—people who’ve already endured unimaginable trauma—under the microscope of public scrutiny with no proof.”

He paused, letting the tension settle before continuing. “This kind of sensationalism taps into our natural need for closure. It exploits the human desire to understand why terrible things happen, even if the explanation is unfounded. And in doing so, it feeds a cycle of misinformation, which can destroy lives. Real, tangible lives.”

Kenny scanned the room again, landing briefly on the empty seat where Aaron should have been. His gut sank, but he forced himself to maintain his composure .

“What you’ve seen today is a lesson in how not to handle a case like this. As future professionals—whether in psychology, media, or any other field—you must understand how your words and actions have consequences. What you say, what you publish, can ruin lives. It can compromise investigations. And it can create new victims in the name of chasing a story.”

The room was silent, the students hanging on his every word.

“So, ask yourselves.” Kenny took off his glasses, wiping his lenses on his sleeve. “Do you want to be the person who seeks the truth responsibly? Or the person who sets the world on fire because it makes for a better headline?”

He let the question linger, then straightened from the desk, putting his glasses back on. “That’s it. That’s today’s lecture. If you remember nothing else in your three years here, let it be that.”

He then grabbed his bag, marched to the door, and left.

* * * *

Thirty minutes later, Kenny stood outside the modest brick building that housed the Ryston Gazette . Unimpressive, with a faded sign above the glass door proclaiming the newspaper’s name in peeling gold letters, with a “Buzz for Entry” sign taped haphazardly to the intercom beneath it. Kenny didn’t bother with the intercom. He banged his fist on the glass until a harried-looking receptionist peered out from behind the desk, face a mask of confusion and irritation. She hesitated before shuffling over to the door, unlocking it with a wary glance.

“Can I help you?”

“I need to speak to Carly Reynolds.” Kenny stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. The small lobby was dimly lit, with yellowed walls and the faint smell of stale coffee lingering in the air.

The receptionist frowned. “Do you have an appointment? ”

Kenny’s patience was already threadbare. “No, but I’m not leaving without speaking to her.”

Before she could argue, Kenny spotted an open-plan office space just beyond the front reception where rows of mismatched desks crammed together, some piled high with papers, others glowing with the pale blue light of computer screens and Taylor hunched near the back.

Kenny strode past the receptionist.

“Sir, you can’t just—”

“Watch me.”

As Kenny marched farther into the office, he saw all the screens were playing the video in question, its title bold and damning: The Howell Legacy: Is Child A Behind the Ryston Murders? And Taylor scrolled through the comments section, a stream of emojis, accusations, and sensational speculation pouring in faster than he could read them. So Kenny didn’t bother with warnings or pleasantries. He locked onto Taylor, revelling in the chaos he’d unleashed, and his rage boiled over.

Grabbing Taylor by the front of his shirt, he yanked him to his feet. His chair toppled to the floor, alerting the others in the office to the commotion, but Kenny gave them no time to respond as he hauled Taylor through the rows of desks, past wide-eyed onlookers too stunned to intervene, and dragged him into the accessibility toilet at the end of the office. He shoved him inside, kicked the door shut, and locked it.

“Jesus, fuck!” Taylor straightened, saving face. To whom, Kenny didn’t know because there was no one in here but Taylor and him. “Come to give a statement directly?”

“You think this is a joke?” Kenny edged his face inches from Taylor’s. “Think playing with people’s lives is some kind of fucking game? Getting likes and comments more important than the truth, is it?”

Taylor tried to push past, but Kenny shoved him back.

“Let me out.” Taylor’s bravado faltered .

“Not until you tell me where you got the information on Child A.”

“A journalist can’t reveal their sources.”

“You’re not a journalist,” Kenny growled. “You’re a fucking parasite . And you’ve just thrown a match onto a powder keg. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I’m reporting the truth!” Taylor choked out, voice rising in desperation. “People deserve to know—”

“You don’t know the first thing about the truth! What you’ve done isn’t truth . It’s not even journalism. It’s speculation. Baseless, dangerous speculation that could destroy innocent lives. And for what? Views? Likes? To boost your pathetic little ego? So you look like the big man on campus? Couldn’t do it with drugs, so now you try with lies?”

Taylor glared, despite the nerves flashing in his eyes.

Insistent knocking from behind the door interrupted, followed by a sharp demand of, “Open up!”

Taylor made a move for the door, but Kenny pushed him back again, harder this time. “I may not be your professor, but let me give you this lesson. Your name will be mud. You’re burying your career before it’s even started as no one in either the police or any professional circles are going to take a two-bit chasing headline hack seriously. Take the video down.” He prodded Taylor’s chest. “Explain it was a hoax. Tell me where you got the information on Child A, and I won’t go to the administration about how you dabble with Rohypnol at your parties.”

Taylor swallowed hard, the defiance in his expression cracking just enough to reveal his worry, but the knocking turned into pounding and soon enough, the door burst open with a woman and a security guard next to her.

“Who the hell do you think you are coming in here and accosting my intern?”

“Are you Carly Reynolds?”

She folded her arms. “Yes. And who are you? ”

“Dr Kenneth Lyons.”

Carly swallowed, noticeably uneasy. She knew his name. Knew who he was. And she was well aware of how far she’d overstepped a mark. Kenny doubted she gave much care to honesty and integrity in her line of work. She had targets and used Taylor to meet them.

“I’d rethink your reporting methods if I were you.” Kenny kept himself deceptively calm, but there was steel beneath it. “Breaking a sealed record? That’s not just unethical—it’s illegal. You’re looking at contempt charges at best, possibly even criminal prosecution. And believe me, the courts won’t be sympathetic.”

He stepped away from Taylor, and when he reached the door, he turned back. “Do us both a favour and keep your intern on a leash. Because if he pulls another stunt like this, it won’t just be me coming for him.”

“News is news, Dr Lyons. If you would like to put something on the record, we can do that.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Kenny barged past her. “You can put that as the fucking headline in your fucking useless piece of trash rag.”

He was about to leave when Taylor’s voice, quaking and unsure, halted him in his tracks. “Is it Aaron?”

Kenny didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge the question.

His silence would speak volumes, though.