Page 6 of Kiss Me Honey Honey (To Love a Psycho #2)

Chapter fiv e

It’s My Party

In some weird, twisted way, Kenny was glad of the distraction from assessing his own crumbling life by immersing himself in that of another’s.

The other’s being Connie Bishop. Third year music student, originally from a small village in North Wales, and netball enthusiast. Friends and family described her as wholesome. She had plans to do a masters in music therapy and work with children with learning disabilities. An all-round good girl. She was quiet at school. Had a small circle of friends. One long-term boyfriend in school, whom she left to go to university in Ryston. They broke up a short time later. After which, Connie threw herself into netball and making new friends. She’d had a few relationships, but nothing stuck. She lived in a house share with three other girls, all who played netball and all who, from the notes Jack and his team had collected, knew little more about her than what the police had gathered already.

What struck Kenny most was the startling absence of meaningful insight from the friends who’d been out with her that night. Their recollections of Connie were shallow at best, as if they’d never truly known her beyond the surface. It left him grappling with a frustrating gap in understanding. How could someone spend so much time surrounded by others yet remain such an enigma?

This lack of depth in her social connections posed a challenge. To understand her actions and reactions on the night she died, Kenny needed to know her patterns. How she navigated social dynamics. How she responded to stress or confrontation. What she did when she felt unsafe. But without genuine insight from those closest to her, all he had to draw on was fragments. Impressions rather than truths.

This disconnect hinted at something deeper. Connie might have been adept at blending in, maintaining a persona that fit the expectations of those around her while keeping her true self guarded. People like that often masked vulnerabilities, adapting to social situations while hiding their inner worlds. And that made her behaviour on the night of her death even harder to predict.

The stark reality was this: Connie Bishop, surrounded by people who claimed to care for her, had been profoundly alone in the moments that mattered most.

So he was here on Friday, making his way down the starkly lit hallway of the Ryston hospital, hoping to gain more insight from someone who hadn’t known her but had dug deeper than any of her friends.

The pathology unit always held an atmosphere both clinical and eerie. A reminder of what brought people here and what brought detectives like Jack and specialists like himself here. Death . He opened the double doors, where the sterile smell of antiseptic and cool air hit him with nostalgia.

It had been a while since he’d done this.

Dr Chong, the chief pathologist, was waiting for him by one of the examination tables, gloved hands resting on a slim tablet. She looked up as he entered, smiled. They knew each other from the handful of cases Kenny had worked on before, and he appreciated her meticulousness, her unwavering attention to detail. If anyone could offer insight on the subtleties of this case, it would be her.

“Dr Lyons.” She set down the tablet and peeled off her gloves. “DI Bentley mentioned you’d be coming by. It’s like you can’t keep away from us.”

“Maybe I just like the smell of antiseptic.”

“Some say it’s an aphrodisiac.”

“You flirting with me?” He sidled up next to her.

“Well, you know how I like my men.”

“Cold and unresponsive?”

“Best way for a lot of them.”

He chuckled, shifting his attention to the examination table where Dr Chong had already laid out the file on Connie Bishop.

“Jack thinks there’s a connection between this case and a couple from a few months back. Said you’d found…something unusual?” Kenny sifted through the pictures.

Chong’s expression turned grim as she handed him the tablet, the screen displaying a full toxicology report with several highlighted sections. “Unusual is an understatement.” She crossed her arms. “All victims appear to have died from what we’re identifying as a neurotoxin. Quick-acting, highly specific. It shuts down the respiratory and cardiovascular systems without leaving obvious signs of trauma.”

Kenny scrolled through the report. “But no standard toxins showed up?”

“No.” She pointed to a particular line in the report. “This compound is synthetic, unlike anything I’ve seen used recreationally. It’s undetectable in standard tests, only caught because we expanded the screening to search for abnormal neurotransmitter activity.” She paused, watching his reaction. “It’s designed to look like a sudden, natural death. If it weren’t for the similarities between the cases, we might’ve missed it entirely.”

“So someone went to great lengths to ensure the toxin would be hard to detect.” Kenny tapped a finger on the tablet. “Did you identify any specific components?”

“Not enough to give a complete profile, but it appears to be a modified form of aconitine.”

Kenny arched an eyebrow for her to continue.

“It’s derived from the aconite plant. Known as the ‘queen of poisons.’ Traditional, but whoever synthesised it tailored it to be far more subtle, eliminating any residual compounds that would raise flags in a typical tox screen. They stripped it down to be lethal and elusive.”

Kenny’s mind raced. A killer using an obscure, undetectable poison showed a level of calculation. And intelligence. “Do you have an estimate of how quickly it acts?”

Chong flipped to a section of the report. “Based on the preliminary findings, we believe it works within five to fifteen minutes, depending on the victim’s weight, metabolism, and other variables. Once absorbed, it’s quick. It would take effect before they could realise anything was wrong.”

“So, no struggle, no chance to call for help?” He scratched his beard. “The killer’s design is flawless. A single dose, almost elegant in its simplicity. No weapon, no evidence left behind.”

“Exactly.” Her voice mirrored the gravity of the situation. “No improvisation here. This is the work of someone who knew precisely what they were doing.”

“It screams like an assassination. It’s what I’d put it down to if they weren’t young girls, unrelated.” Kenny’s mind flashed to their suspect profile, the aspects Jack had hinted at. “So, ruling out an assassination hit, it still suggests an interest in control and detachment. A sort of…intellectual obsession. This person wanted the kill to look peaceful, almost as if death had caught her unnoticed. The motive feels almost academic.”

Dr Chong gave a small nod, glancing back at the file. “Jack thought the same. And if this isn’t a one-off, if this killer is following some design, we could be looking at someone with professional knowledge. With access to compounds and enough scientific understanding to use them this precisely. I didn’t examine the other bodies, but got sent the files and can conclude it looks very similar.”

Kenny folded his arms, circling around the implications. “This person isn’t driven by rage or thrill. They’re calculating, detached, and possibly testing limits. They might even see this as art, perfected through control.” He looked up at Chong. “The killer’s motives likely lean toward intellectual validation, not emotional fulfilment.”

“Which only makes it harder to predict. Their logic is clinical, cold. No impulsive mistakes, no mess.”

As Kenny processed the information, his mind turned to the most pressing question. He tapped the edge of the tablet, breaking the silence. “If this toxin acts so quickly, how do you think it’s being administered? It would have to enter the bloodstream or be absorbed almost immediately.”

Dr Chong nodded, as if already expecting the question. “We’ve been looking into that. Based on the toxicology report and the absence of physical trauma or injection marks, ingestion is the most likely method. Like we see with Rohypnol and GHB. Might have slipped it into drink or food. Something the victim consumed willingly, without suspecting anything.”

“Wouldn’t the bitter taste of aconitine give it away?” Kenny asked, recalling the plant’s natural properties.

“That’s the interesting part,” Chong said, her tone sharp. “The compound has been modified. Whoever synthesised it would have neutralised the bitter taste without compromising its potency. It would be virtually undetectable to the victim. No smell, no taste, and no visible residue in the glass or container after it dissolves. Similar to Rohypnol.”

Kenny furrowed his brow. “So, the killer would have to be close enough to spike her drink. They’d need timing and access, especially if the effects take five to fifteen minutes. It suggests a level of familiarity, even trust. Not a flyby assassin.”

Chong crossed her arms. “And that’s what makes this so unsettling. Whoever did this likely interacted with the victim, possibly even charmed them. The calm, detached nature of the act suggests this isn’t just a crime of opportunity. It’s premeditated, controlled.”

“But her friends saw nothing?” Kenny rubbed the back of his neck, his mind racing through the implications. “What about other forms of administration?” He thought back to the cases and, as always, the rose stuck out at him. “Could the victim have inhaled it? When sniffing a flower, perhaps?”

“It’s highly unlikely with aconitine in this context.”

Kenny frowned, mind racing. Maybe he’d always make a link to roses, even when they were mundane. “Why not? What if the rose was laced with the compound? Powdered or aerosolized?”

Chong shook her head. “While aconitine is highly toxic and can theoretically be absorbed through mucous membranes, effectiveness via inhalation would be significantly reduced compared to ingestion. Aconitine potency relies on direct entry into the bloodstream or digestive system. That’s why ingestion is far more practical for a killer. It ensures a controlled, precise dosage. With inhalation, the amount absorbed would be far less predictable, and the victim might not receive enough to cause fatal effects.”

Kenny had another think. “Could it have been absorbed through the skin?”

Chong hesitated, then flipped to another section of the report. “It’s possible, but unlikely. Skin absorption would require prolonged contact or an unusually high concentration, and there’s no evidence of residue on her skin or clothing. The lab found nothing on the victim’s hands, neck, or face to suggest direct exposure. Ingestion remains the most plausible method. ”

Kenny exhaled, chest tightening. “So, we’re looking at a killer who can get close to their victims, earn their trust, and deliver a fatal dose without raising suspicion from either the intended victim or those around them.”

His stomach turned as he handed the tablet back to Chong. The profile forming in his mind was clear: someone who relished the precision of their work, who saw their victims as pawns in a larger design. And with every move, they were honing their craft, leaving no room for error.

“I’ll need to delve deeper into recent case studies, examine similar methods. I’ll also need you to notify me of any new cases that have even the slightest resemblance.”

Chong gave a brisk nod. “Of course. In the meantime, I’ll run further tests on these samples. If anything new surfaces, you’ll be the second to know. Sorry, bud, Jack comes first.”

Ha. Jack always did come first.

But that was in another life.

He handed the tablet back, a sense of foreboding settling over him. He’d only meant to just ‘ take a look’ . But, again, he couldn’t walk away from something so severe. Whoever was behind these deaths wasn’t just meticulous; they were clinical, seeing human life as a component in their design, their victims merely players in a dark, calculated game.

And anyone could be their next victim.

But for now, he needed to get home, scrub the antiseptic from his skin, and brace himself for a Friday night dinner party. With his colleague and his wife, Kenny’s ex-boyfriend and his new husband, and the woman Kenny had once dated in a misguided attempt at normalcy.

All the while grappling with the undeniable truth: Aaron had upended his world and clarified how normal was never going to be his path.

Fuck his actual life.

* * * *

Aaron arrived at Taylor’s student house, clutching his bottle of JD, wondering why the fuck he was here.

To get drunk, mostly.

To get absolutely off his tits.

Then he might just let Taylor have at him.

Sighing, he trudged up the small path, music already blasting out from inside, silhouettes through the net curtain suggesting this faux birthday was already in full swing at not even five on a Friday evening. Neighbours probably loved living next to a bunch of university students. He rang the bell, and the door swung open immediately after, revealing Max, one half of Taylor’s housemates. The annoying half. And he was already half cut.

“Aaron! Happy birthday, mate!” Max clamped an arm over Aaron’s shoulders to drag him into the living room teeming with people Aaron didn’t know.

Taylor and his mates might have said this was in honour of his recent birthday, but as everyone in here were third years, he was under no illusion this party was for him . Now he wished Mel was here. But she’d got herself a job at HMV and they had a late night opening on Fridays. So, ushered into the living space, he had to do the awkward smile at people he didn’t know.

“When’s Taylor getting here?” he asked into Max’s ear.

“Said he’ll be late. He’s chasing that story about the netballer.”

“Great.” Aaron rolled his eyes as George bustled over, a plastic cup of something in his hand.

“All right, Aaron?” He tipped his cup at the JD. “Want me to take that in the kitchen? Get you a cup?”

Well, he supposed he couldn’t well drink it out of the bottle. So he nodded and handed it over. “With coke, yeah? ”

“I know what you drink, dickhead.” George tutted and off he went.

Aaron shrugged out of his denim jacket, the air inside warm and cloying with the smell of booze and the faint tang of sweat meshed with dust and leftover food. Three blokes living together were a disaster. Aaron knew that from his days in the halfway house back in London, and living with ten other males in his Halls, all of whom had had their mums clearing up after them for years.

George returned with his drink and he took it with a forced smile, watching as George wrapped an arm around Max and they went immediately into their usual snogging session, with Max groping George’s arse. Aaron knew, from experience, within ten minutes, they’d each be chatting someone else up. Neither minded. Aaron wondered if that was the way to go. To be open about it. Fuck who you wanna fuck, but still have your fella at home. He could be that way with Taylor.

Could he be that way with Kenny?

Absolutely fucking not.

Aaron tipped his head back, slamming the drink down in one go, the burn scorching its way down his throat. It wasn’t enough to dull the gnawing ache in his chest, though. Because, in some twisted way, what he had with Kenny was way worse. They might both be with other people, yet not with each other despite being bound in ways they couldn’t admit, couldn’t act on, leaving him in this unbearable limbo.

The thought roiled in his gut like poison, so he stalked into the kitchen, cluttered with sticky cups and abandoned drinks. Heavy with the scent of cheap booze and spilled mixers, he grabbed the bottle of JD, poured more into his drink with a reckless splash, and took a long pull before heading back into the living room.

The noise hit him again, louder this time, laughter and fragmented conversations bouncing off the battered walls and mismatched furniture. Groups of students sprawled across sofas, faces flushed with drink and naivety. Aaron remained on the outside of it all, moving through the room like a ghost, steps aimless, interest detached, drifting from one group to another. Conversations ranged from upcoming exams, hookups, plans for Christmas break, and Aaron feigned interest, checking his phone for anything from Taylor. One message popped through.

Sorry babe, be there when I can. Tell Max keep his hands off you x

Aaron sighed. Thought about going home. Until the conversation within the group he’d found himself in turned to the netballer.

“Still can’t believe what happened to her,” some bloke sprawled on the couch said. Tall, lanky, wearing a faded band tee, Aaron vaguely recognised him from previous Taylor-induced gatherings but couldn’t place his name.

“Didn’t you fuck her?” someone else chimed in.

The bloke nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, for a bit. Last year. Nothing serious. She was…bit boring.”

“What do you think happened?” another voice asked, curiosity dripping from their tone. “I heard someone spiked her.”

“No way,” someone else countered. “The whole netball team was out. Why would they spike her ? You seen the others, yeah? If you wanted to fuck one of them, it wouldn’t be Connie.”

Aaron couldn’t bear to hear any more. So he slunk off back to the kitchen where it was quieter, the buzz of the party muffled by the door closing behind him. Resting against the counter, he poured himself another drink. The noise and the people felt like static in his head. Didn’t feel real . They weren’t part of his life, where death and destruction were the norm. Where it wasn’t something to frame with flippancy.

“You hiding in here?” Leaning casually on the doorframe with a grin plastered across his face that Aaron could read a mile off, Max was trying to get in his pants more than his boyfriend was.

“Your mates are pricks.”

Max laughed, then wandered in, grabbing a beer from the fridge and cracking it open. “Taylor shouldn’t leave you here all alone, should he?”

No, he shouldn’t. Cause Aaron wasn’t someone who played nice when people provoked him. And he could feel the itch under his skin, the heat rising in his chest, begging him to bite back. Confrontation brought out the worst in him. Years of having to protect himself, to assert his place in an unforgiving world, had made him quick to rise to a challenge. And Max was just another twat who thought he could poke the beast and not get clawed.

He should thank his lucky stars Aaron had been going to therapy recently.

Max’s expression didn’t waver, but Aaron saw through it. The smirk, the confidence. It wasn’t real. It was a mask. A thin veneer covering his insecurities. Max didn’t see Aaron as a threat because he didn’t take him seriously. To Max, Aaron was a toy, something to poke, prod, and test, not realising that some things snapped back harder than expected.

Max chugged back some beer. “We used to share in this house. Til you came along.”

Aaron rolled his eyes. That was the thing about people like Max. They were arseholes because it made them feel bigger, stronger, in control. Aaron knew the type. He’d spent his whole life around people who thought dominance was a game, and validation came from how much they could take from others.

“You feeling left out?” Aaron mock pouted. If Max wanted to test him, let him. But Aaron wasn’t someone who broke easily, and he wasn’t afraid to remind people of that.

“Me? Nah. I get enough. I’m guessing Taylor’s the one feeling left out though. ”

Aaron said nothing.

“Saw you on the pole.”

“I’m sure you had a good look.”

“I did.” Max winked. “Y’know, Taylor won’t be back for hours. And he won’t mind if we make our own amusement until then.”

“Play Twister?”

Max laughed. “If that’s how to get your arse in my face.”

“You wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“I’ll bet I can do more with it than Taylor can.” Max cocked his head. “Or does.”

Aaron could smell the desperation. The need to get one up on Taylor. On George. He was one of those blokes. Needed to have it all.

Max stepped closer. “If he’s not satisfying you, I can give it a go?”

“Fuck off, Max.” Aaron prodded his chest, pushing him away. He wasn’t worried. More bored. “You’ll get a sprain with how much you’re bending over to crawl up my arse.”

Max chuckled, then raised his hands, stepping back. “All right, all right. No offense, yeah?” He turned his back, sorting out drinks, then handed a JD and Coke to him. “Peace offering.”

Aaron hesitated before taking the glass. Max might be a prick, but he was harmless compared to the vast majority who tried it on with him. He’d had way worse than some chemistry student wanting to pick up bragging rights. So he took the cup and knocked it back in one swoop.

“Nice.” Max grinned, gathering the other cups. “Look, we always try it on with each other’s boyfriends. It’s like an initiation.” He pointed a finger. “You just passed. Well done.”

Max left, but Aaron stayed rooted to the spot, staring at the floor, mind a jumble of indecision. He could leave. Head back to his Halls, crawl into bed, and block out the world. Or he could sneak up to Taylor’s room, zone out in front of his TV, and pretend the party wasn’t happening downstairs. He did neither, instead, staying where he was in the kitchen. He drank. One drink turned into another, then another, until his tongue felt thick and his lips dried out. He staggered over to the sink, fumbling for a glass and filling it with water. He rarely got this drunk, this quickly, but the edges of his sight blurred, and he blinked, trying to focus, but the motion only made his head swim.

How much have I had?

He shook his head, grabbing the glass and gulping down the water to steady himself. It didn’t work. The sensation was wrong— off —as though his body was moving without his brain keeping up.

He’d been like this once before. And the outcome hadn’t been pleasant.

Setting the glass down on the counter, he dragged his fingers through his hair to push it back into his usual styled quiff. The action was automatic, grounding. But the stars behind his eyes only flashed brighter, dancing in his periphery. Then the dizziness surged, like a wave crashing over him, and his legs buckled. Panic crept in around the edges of the haze and he willed for the stars in his vision to dissipate.

They didn’t.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

George came in. “You all right, mate?” He dumped an empty can into the filled up bin liner, then lowered to get in his line of sight. “You had too much?”

Aaron hadn’t had too much. Not nearly enough . And he blinked, George’s features blurring.

“Shit, mate.” George tapped his shoulder. “You look peaky. Go lie down in Taylor’s room.” He angled his head, then sauntered back into the living room.

Aaron lurched away from the counter, every step shaky, the room tilting dangerously. He had no intention of staying in this house, no intention of collapsing here under the watchful eyes of strangers—or worse, Max . The thought alone propelled him toward the hallway, and he fumbled for the door handle, yanking it open with more force than necessary.

The cool night air hit him like a slap, sharp and bracing, but it did nothing to clear his head. Darkness had settled over the street, shadows deep and unforgiving under the faint glow of streetlights, and he staggered down the small yard, legs weak beneath him.

The world spun.

He turned right, stumbling toward the alley cutting between the streets, its narrow path secluded enough to shield him. His heart pounded, each beat echoing in his ears as he half-ran, feet dragging on uneven ground. He made it halfway up the alley before his legs buckled, and he slammed a hand on the cold, rough wall to keep from collapsing.

Nausea churned in his stomach and he pressed his forehead to the wall, the chill of the brick biting into his skin. His limbs were too heavy. Head swimming. Every inhale suffocating.

This can’t be normal.

He fumbled in his pocket, dragging out his phone, but his fingers were clumsy, too sluggish to obey as he swiped through his recent calls. Names scrolled past in a blur until he landed on the one that stood out like a beacon: Kenny.

Hovering his thumb over the screen, he hesitated.

How could he? How could he call Kenny ?

He couldn’t think. Then he couldn’t stand. And he fell, knees hitting the cold, unforgiving ground and his phone clattered onto the pavement.