Page 23

Part Three

L ooking at a bruise and thinking, damn, I missed this, was such cliché behavior.

Trauma behavior.

Victim behavior.

And yet—Lex stood in the bathroom, tilting his face in the mirror like it might give him a better angle of the purple-blue haze along his jaw. He turned his head slightly to the left. Then back.

“I swear, I’m not this fucked up,” he told the mirror. But his reflection didn’t argue, only showed the way the bruise whited-out when he pressed his fingers into it.

His hands dropped to the sink, nails clicking. Drumming a beat that didn’t exist outside his own head .

This wasn’t pain. He’d meant what he said: he wasn’t a masochist.

It was proof.

He’d made Morgan feel something last night.

Morgan didn’t rattle easy. Didn’t get jealous anymore. Lex couldn’t blame him for that—what the fuck was he supposed to be jealous about? Coffee?

But for the first time in months, Lex had seen it. Felt it . The way Morgan acted like Lex had abandoned him, not just lost track of the time.

The thought gave him a sugar-high rush. Sweet and sticky, coating his throat.

I would be the most fascinating goddamn guest on a crime documentary. End season episode levels of good.

“ Not fucked up,” he reminded himself. “Interesting.”

Lex undid the top button of the shirt. Redid it. Undid it.

Screw it.

It looked better the way he had it the first time.

Cracking open the bathroom door, he peeked his head out.

“Morgan? You back yet?”

Nothing. Only quiet.

Only streaks of bright afternoon light painting the carpet.

How long did it take to drop off a document at Gabriel’s office? They were staying like, ten minutes away. Twenty when traffic got bad.

Whatever.

But—

Fuck.

What if it wasn’t whatever ?

Gabriel was shifty. That was a fact , whether Morgan believed him or not.

He headed back into the bedroom, yanked his phone off the charger.

A text from Morgan.

Less than a minute ago.

Like he knew what Lex was thinking.

Morgan

Traffic. 15 out.

Good.

Lex looked to the cage, head tilted.

Ollie was asleep. As usual. He didn’t keep normal sleeping hours like they did. Lex could hear him moving around sometimes when Ollie was in the second bedroom still—late at night and well into the early morning.

He probably slept when they left for work.

Kinda smart, actually. The only smart thing Ollie had done since they met him. Probably in his entire, miserable life.

Dropping backwards onto the bed, Lex scrolled through the pictures he’d taken last night.

They weren’t as good as they could’ve been. He hadn’t remembered to set his phone up to record. That had just… slipped his mind entirely. Nothing was caught on camera. Not the moment Ollie saw the cage, not the moment he broke…

All of it was gone.

Fucking criminal .

But he’d know for next time. He’d remember.

Still—there were a few strong shots .

Ollie curled in the crate, towel bunched beneath him, fingers hooked through the bars.

Lex zoomed in on one where Ollie’s face was caught mid-blink—eyelids swollen, mouth slightly open like he was dreaming through it.

Lex stared at it for too long.

Then starred it.

He shifted up onto the pillow, and his thumb must have jerked because the photos scrolled . Fast as hell.

“Dammit…”

Now he’d have to go back up.

He’d started to.

Stopped when he saw a picture of a test score.

81/84. See what you can do when you put in the effort , written in red cursive.

This was from high school.

All of these had transferred from his old phone when he finally upgraded a couple years ago.

Instead of going back up, he went down memory lane.

Pictures of his old friend group.

Croissant in that atrocious birthday hat he’d laughed his ass off when he finally wrestled her into it.

A pool party selfie. Holding a bottle of beer. Acne so bad, pizza wanted a slice of him.

Down further.

Morgan.

Lots, and lots of Morgan.

Hundreds of pictures. Years worth .

No wonder his poor phone chugged sometimes. Overheated at the drop of a hat.

If Lex was being honest? He really didn’t remember taking half of these.

Some? Yeah. Definitely.

The one of Morgan in the red and green flannel pants—his version of celebrating the holidays. Knee pulled to his chest, chin propped on the back of his hand. Christmas tree trying to swallow the side of his dark head. He just looked… sad.

Morgan had moved out a month later.

Lex had moved out three months later.

One month after he got out of the hospital.

Two weeks after he’d looked Mr. Delacroix in the eye and swore he wouldn’t go hunt Morgan down. Again.

Good pictures were rare. Most were blurry, rushed, taken from behind corners and down hallways. But they were his .

Lex kept scrolling.

The one that stopped him sat dead center of the camera roll.

Lex tapped the screen. Zoomed in.

Morgan in the woods, backlit by that blue-white winter sunlight. No coat, just an oversized T-shirt. Glove missing. Cheeks flushed with cold. Eyes haunted as hell.

He looked like the idea of sleep was foreign.

Staring—not at the camera—but at Lex.

No yelling. No, Stop following me.

Just awkward silence.

This one was my favorite back then.

He’d been fifteen.

Morgan was twenty .

Lex had snuck into Morgan’s room because—well—he could . Because he wanted to. He’d gone through the drawers, the closet, notebooks. The little box Morgan kept under the bed.

An animal tooth from god knew what. Wrapped in gauze like it was a prized possession.

Lex had been halfway through trying to figure out what he wanted to take—add to his growing collection—when he heard the front door open.

Morgan, home early. Off schedule by hours .

Lex had barely slid under the bed in time, heart in his throat. He remembered the dust, the bite of a loose spring against his forehead.

Morgan had paced.

Then thrown something—a mug, maybe. It shattered against the wall, and Lex had flinched so hard he almost gave himself away.

But Morgan didn’t notice.

He was talking to himself.

Lex didn’t remember the words, but he remembered how they sounded. Fast and hushed. Then louder. Louder still.

Morgan stripped off his jacket—the sleeve landed an inch from Lex’s cheek. Stormed out again.

Lex followed. Not close. Not obvious. Enough to see.

Into the woods. Camera in hand. An old flip phone. Grainy as shit but heavy duty. Reliable.

He remembered Morgan stopping.

Turning around. Locking eyes with him like he’d been expecting it .

Lex had frozen. Half-step raised. Not hiding. Not running.

Caught.

He coughed when he took the picture.

“I—I’m meeting my friends,” Lex had blurted. “I was texting them.”

Morgan exhaled. One long puff of winter air. “In the woods.”

“Yeah—yeah! Why not? Isn’t that why you come out here?”

It was the dumbest fucking question known to man, now that Lex thought about it as an adult. Obviously leading. Begging for information. Giving up way too much .

Morgan saw right through him. Shook his head. Walked off.

Lex had stood there long after, phone still clutched in his hand. He remembered the way the frost clung to his lashes.

And that moment?

That was the beginning.

Not of the obsession. That had started the year before—untouchable, even when he realized it wasn’t normal.

But of possibility .

Morgan hadn’t stopped him.

Just like he hadn’t stopped him last night.

Lex stared at the photo. Let it carve its way into his very being.

Then closed the camera roll.

Put the phone on the pillow beside him.

“Tonight,” he whispered into the quiet, “he’s going to see exactly who I am.”

He smiled at the ceiling.

“And it’s going to be the best show he’s ever fucking seen.”