Marrow

JACK

The conference room plummets a noticeable few degrees cooler in temperature as the man wearing a cheap suit and gun harness enters, and Kyrie’s wide gaze locks with mine.

I’ve never witnessed her purposely avoid another person before. She’s always the first to seek notice, a beaming smile sent to disarm and bait before that person realizes they’ve been ensnared.

Curiosity crawls along my senses, and I give my attention to the man holding up an FBI shield.

“I’m Special Agent Eric Hayes with the Violent Crime division,” he says. Placing his badge back into the inseam of his ill-fitting blazer, he pans the room with a shrewd gaze. “I appreciate your director giving me this time to address the matter at hand.”

Brad has stopped pacing and now directs an anxious look toward the agent. “Violent crime? Has there been an update about Mason?”

It’s Hugh who addresses the outburst. “No, I’m sorry, Dr. Thompson. Nothing yet.”

“Don’t be alarmed, folks,” Hayes follows up promptly. “My branch has been notified in response to another closely related matter. I’m just here to ask some questions.”

Despite his attempt to downplay the FBI’s involvement, no one here is convinced. Hands wring on the table. Eyes blink rapidly. Nervous twitching and shuffling of positions adds a thick layer of unease beneath the already tense silence. As if every single person here has some sinister secret to hide. Police and government officials have a tendency to make even a saint question their morals.

I sneak a glimpse at Kyrie directly across from me at the table. Her gaze is now aimed at the pale wood, a curtain of her dark brown hair draped over the side of her face. My eyebrows furrow in question, but she avoids me just the same.

I naturally don’t feel so at ease in the presence of law enforcement. But I’m not the one who has half a mutilated body buried somewhere. Which makes me question if the remains have already been uncovered.

Why else would the FBI show up now?

I try harder to catch Kyrie’s gaze, and notice I’m not the only one vying for her attention. The agent walks behind her, stops to look down briefly before he removes a notepad from his jacket pocket. Very old-school, hardboiled fashion. It almost makes me smirk.

After Hugh gives a brief commentary on our HR rights and asks for a collective agreeance to answer questions for the agency, Agent Hayes targets Brad. “Dr. Thompson, is it?”

Brad’s defenses visibly erect. His shoulders tense. “That’s correct.”

“How long did Mason Dumont intern in your department, Dr. Thompson?” the agent asks.

“Nine months, I believe,” Brad says, then shakes his head. “I’d have to check the records, of course, but I think that’s close. He was a very thorough research analyst. Mason worked primarily with the Bass Fields’ body farm program. Five days is a long time for him to be missing with no word, right?”

Brad sends a guarded glance my way, then blinks and shifts his stare. His thoughts might as well be written on the projection screen, he’s that transparent. Agitation worms into my cool demeanor and I seek Kyrie’s gaze again. All Brad needs is the slightest nudge by this agent, and he’ll implicate me in Mason’s disappearance. He’s already nervously giving away too much.

Law enforcement etiquette 101: never answer a question not asked.

After jotting down a note, Agent Hayes says, “We haven’t drawn any conclusions yet, Dr. Thompson. Did Mr. Dumont ever report any strange findings or inconsistencies in the body farm records to you?”

My heart knocks a beat faster against my chest wall. I refrain from looking at the agent, giving away no noticeable reaction, but internally, my blood is roaring.

Finally, Kyrie makes eye contact with me, both of us seemingly coming to the same conclusion at once.

Not only did Mason bring the body discrepancy to Brad, he shared his worries with an outside source.

The fucking FBI.

Mason is the only one who could have involved them. No one other than Brad—who spooks at his own shadow—knew of the victim with a missing hyoid buried in the research fields.

There’s no other way the FBI could be aware of Mason’s discovery. He had to have contacted them himself.

As Brad does his best to articulate a coherent response to Agent Hayes, explaining how an oversight with a donated body or records could be incorrectly documented by the interns—all while stealing nervous glances my way—I decide Brad was definitely not the one to report it. He’s far more frightened of me than the FBI.

I gauge Kyrie’s behavior, questioning if she knew of Mason’s actions.

No. That would be recklessly stupid. Far too careless even for her impulsive nature.

Killing Mason after he knowingly contacted the feds would be sure to bring the authorities to our doorstep. Something neither of us would want.

“Thank you for your more than helpful input, Dr. Thompson,” Agent Hayes says. “I may need to contact you again should I need further insight on the body farm records.”

My gaze darts to Hugh, the word warrant burning like a branding iron at the back of my throat as I hold it back.

Agent Hayes lines me in his sights. He’s not tall. Five-nine, maybe. He’s roughly mid-fifties and has a pouchy gut from sitting at a desk versus being in the field. His thinning hair is cropped close to his scalp, hinting to some military background. He wants others to see him as being in charge, having the answers, domineering, but he tries too hard to appear intimidating when the lines bracketing his mouth reveal how much shit he takes from his superiors daily.

The agent checks his notepad before addressing me. “Dr. Sorensen,” his eyes find mine, “you have a very impressive career.”

“Thank you.”

The corner of his mouth tics. “Do you recall the last time Mr. Dumont was seen in your department?”

I raise my eyebrows and push back in my chair, releasing a terse breath as I pretend to think. “I don’t.”

The agent waits for me to say more. When I offer nothing further, he nods and pushes forward. “According to the logs Dr. Cannon provided, Mr. Dumont was working on a…” He checks his notes again. “A donation in your department.”

“That seems right,” I say.

“But you don’t recall speaking with him, or seeing him—”

“Dr. Sorensen isn’t big on communicating or even noticing that others work in his department.”

There’s a shared round of snickers to break some of the tension. It’s Kyrie who suddenly speaks up to come to my aid. I hold her gaze across the table, and she gives me the faintest smile.

“Dr. Roth,” the agent says, and moves across the room in order to look at her directly. “It is Dr. Kyrie Roth, correct?”

She licks her lips and frowns at the agent. “Yes, that’s my name. How can I help you, Agent Hayes?”

Kyrie’s ability to mask her expression and blend into any environment is, admittedly, impressive. I should have realized this trait beforehand. So many tiny tells are coming to light as I study her today, and I realize how she even masked herself from me.

It wasn’t hard; my ego did most of the work for her.

Hayes regards her with a curious mix of apprehension and concern, like a father sorely disappointed in their child, but who still wants to shelter them. Could be a side effect of his misogyny; men in his position with his authority often overcorrect this attribute. Or he could have a daughter of his own, which would explain the flash of familiarity I glimpse in the agent’s squinted gaze when he asks her his next question.

“How long have you been employed at the university, Dr. Roth?”

She clasps her hands together on the table surface. “Three amazing years.”

The agent doesn’t take any notes. “You’ve done a lot of amazing things here during your time, as I understand. Expanding the Bass Fields research program, for one. That’s kind of like your baby, isn’t it?”

She only hesitates a beat, then her practiced smile forms. “I just won an award the other night, but I couldn’t have done any of it without the tireless and dedicated help of my colleagues.”

Hayes nods. “There are no accolades being given today, Dr. Roth. Just the facts.”

His derisive remark burrows under her protective armor, and she smiles wider. “Of course.”

“And in your three years here, have you noticed any of the inconsistencies Dr. Thompson was referring to?”

With a tilt of her head, Kyrie says, “Oh, sure.” She keeps her voice steady, pleasant but with a subtle hint of concern for the missing member of our team. “I mean, not to throw anyone under the bus, we have the best grad students in the country in our program, but they’re still in school, still learning. Crunching late hours for tests. It’s human to make mistakes.”

His smile is forced, but he logs a note. “Were you aware of any strife between Mason Dumont and anyone else in the program?”

She blinks, shakes her head. “I don’t believe so, no.”

“What about the bar the students frequent…” He flips a page in his notepad. “Black Rock Distillery. Did you ever hear Mason talking about going there?”

“I’m sorry, no,” she says simply.

From here, it’s a game of ping-pong between them. Gleaning nothing helpful from Kyrie, the agent moves on, traveling around the room and collecting additional information on the missing Mr. Dumont. Mason was well-liked. Not the top of his class, but exceptional enough to be praised by his professors. Nothing alarming is uncovered about him, other than the fact none of his professors, friends, or family have heard from him in nearly five days.

I watch students shuffle by the conference room, curiously peeking over with red-rimmed eyes, their concern for a friend or fellow student evident in their distressed performance. The professional staff within this room are concerned with deadlines and how the case might delay or disrupt their work. They’re putting on a good front to display concern, but really, we’re all exceedingly egotistical by nature. You don’t get to the top of the ladder by carving out space in your thoughts to care for one lone grad student.

That’s why the hunting in the Tri-City college towns is so good.

And why I didn’t notice the rising reports of missing male students and men. I’m guilty of the same bloated ego of my colleagues, which kept me from recognizing another hunter in my midst.

That vanity will cost me.

As the meeting comes to a close, Hugh allows the agent to pass out his personal contact on cards to the team. Kyrie is the first to slip out of the room.

I bypass Agent Hayes, living up to my dismissive reputation, and trail Kyrie through the warren of glass offices. As she turns down a hallway, I coast up beside her and clasp her bicep, steering her into the cold room.

“Jack, what the hell?”

I swing the door closed, trapping us inside with the steel modular lockers bricked along the walls. There are rows of storage for biological reagents and chemicals that, along with the bodies, need to be stored at a chilling thirty-nine degrees Fahrenheit.

The immediate drop in my body temperature cools my overheated blood. It affects Kyrie too, as I notice how she rubs her forearm, her eyes blazing despite the chilled enclosure. My gaze drifts to her hardened nipples peaked against her thin white blouse.

“Did you want something, Jack?” Her demanding tone bites into my erratic thoughts. “Like, say, to tell me the date of your resignation and to congratulate me on winning? Or are you here to make good on your threat to have me on my knees.” One perfect eyebrow arches. “I honestly didn’t suspect you as being one to fraternize in the workplace.”

And like that, all cool composure cracks. Impatience stirs in my veins, and I back her against the steel body lockers, caging her in like a feral animal.

“That might be the only way to shut you up,” I say, the visual of stuffing my studded cock down her throat more than tempting to get that desired effect now.

A swallow drags along the delicate column of her throat. “Then why—?”

“The FBI didn’t show up here because of one student reported missing,” I say, my voice cast low between us. “They’re here because of a pattern of men going missing.”

Agent Hayes didn’t list any names, but he didn’t have to. He hedged around the college bar, implying Mason was a possible victim connected to a rash of disappearances—ones that could be directly connected to the body farm program.

Her wide eyes soften a fraction, disarming. “One agent,” she says. “Not the whole FBI or a task force. Hardly a reason to be meeting all clandestine in the body cooler.” Before I can remark, she adds, “That agent didn’t say anything about a pattern. You’re paranoid.”

“And you’re careless.” I bite into my bottom lip, my hands balled at my sides, restraining myself from the urge to clean up my own careless mess.

I take a purposeful step back, putting enough distance between us to shield myself from her body heat. Kyrie has the innate ability to look on the positive side, but even she should be more concerned about a fed snooping around.

My gaze narrows on her as I say, “You think sending Brad to Madrid on my grant field trip makes you the winner and solves our problem. That trip is three weeks away. We need Brad gone now.”

Her body trembles from the cold, her teeth chattering a little as she sucks in a breath. Against my will, my cock jerks at the sight. The titanium studs rub abrasively against my briefs and make it damn hard not to reach down to adjust myself.

“You’re right,” she says, surprising me. “Brad’s not real good at keeping his cool like some.” She flashes amused eyes up at me. “It’s a huge inconvenience—”

“That you killed a student in our department, bringing the feds to our door? Yeah, it is.” I push in another inch closer to her. “Did you know your victim had contacted the feds?” I demand.

I study her pursed features; she’s pretty even when indignant. “Do you honestly, really think so fucking little of me?”

My nostrils flare, the scent of her perfume invading my senses. “That’s not an answer.”

She huffs a soundless laugh. “No, Jack. I did not know Mason had already contacted the feds before I injected him with SUX and chopped up his body. Next time, I’ll make sure to be extra thorough when killing someone to cover your ass. Satisfied?”

The crude visual she paints allows me to imagine in graphic, arousing detail how she subdued and killed her victim. I blink hard to clear the mental imagery as I dissect her admission beneath the sarcasm.

Kyrie discovered Mason had planned to go around Brad and send the FBI information that could implicate me—or possibly her. I can’t be sure whose ass she’s actually looking out for, seeing as she more than wants me to suffer.

I glance away as she tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “As for Brad, I had a plan for him,” I say. “I was handling him.”

“At a glacial-fucking-pace,” she snaps. “By the time you would have ‘handled him’”—she makes air quotes, quickly wrapping her arms around her quivering body—“Mason would’ve led Brad to three more discrepancies. He had a file, Jack. I erased the hard drive on his laptop. He was going to give Brad that information after the gala.” She cocks a neat eyebrow. “So, you’re welcome.”

I release a hard breath through my nose, then drive my hand through my hair. I should have left West Paine three years ago. The reasons I didn’t pale in comparison to the shitstorm brewing now.

“I said, you’re welcome,” she stresses.

“Don’t pretend any part of Thursday night was for me,” I say, the unwanted memory of her entering Brad’s front door raiding my thoughts. “You have your own selfish motivation.”

As my gaze tracks Kyrie pressed to the lockers, I fight the illogical voice whispering that my reasons for staying were merely excuses. We are all selfish creatures in the end. Some destructive part of me craved to be near this woman, despite all sound logic. I knew it then, her light to my dark, her brimming kinetic energy animating my lifeless corpse.

This rivalry between us started long before now.

Challenging Dr. Roth became almost as satisfying as feeling my victims take their last breath.

My gaze settles on the pale tint of her trembling mouth, the blood drained from her plump lips. No part of me wants to make her warm. I’m gripped with the sudden and dangerous urge to tear the flimsy buttons of her blouse open to see the gooseflesh covering her skin.

I should leave.

Tonight.

The wise choice is to pack my belongings and head out of town. I’ve had my next destination in place for a while. All I have to do is walk away and not look back.

“So what do you suppose we do?” The question leaves my mouth, shocking the both of us.

“I’ll handle Brad,” she says, voice shaky. “Without evidence or proof of any discrepancies, I can calm him down just fine without having to go to extreme measures.”

Right now, I finish the statement for her.

Brad might be malleable for the time being, but his expiration date expired the moment he invaded my territory.

I silently agree with a firm nod. “And the body?”

She releases a breath, her lips quivering, as she flattens her palms to the steel and pushes herself forward. I don’t move back.Text content © NôvelDrama.Org.

“I don’t see why we should cancel all our fun…” She boldly pinches my tie between her fingers. “Besides, you still have that pesky recording of me. Are you willing to delete it, Jack? Give up your leverage?” She twists my tie around her palm, the heated friction of her hand grazing my chest. “A girl has to look out for herself in this world.”

A blaze whips down my spine, igniting my actions before I realize I’ve made a move. I have Kyrie’s throat in my clutch, my palm pressed to her trachea, fingers anchored to the side of her neck. I look down into her sweet face and drink in the flicker of fear before she’s able to mask it.

“You’re not a girl,” I say, my tone bordering on lethal. “You’re an irritating inconvenience that is begging to have her ass reddened.”

Her pupils dilate. “And don’t you just hate how much that excites you.”

My cock jumps in response, the temptation to crush her windpipe a fierce need coiled around my shrinking restraint. I choke up on her throat as she swallows, and the feel of her hyoid enticingly presses against the web of my hand.

I bring her face inches from mine. “Give me one fucking reason why I shouldn’t smother you and put your limp body in one of these lockers.”

Struggling to breathe, she removes her hand from my chest and sinks her fingers into her skirt pocket. Placing the silver object within my periphery, she strikes the lighter.

I relax my grip, and she says, “Because you have no idea what else I have on you, Jack. Now be a good boy and remove your hand.”

I keep her in my grasp, some dark demand refusing to release her just yet.

Freeing her throat one finger at a time, I slowly withdraw. It’s like forcing apart two opposite poles of a magnet.

She touches her neck, her dainty fingers inspecting for injury.

“I know how to strangle without causing damage,” I say. “If I want to hurt you, I will.”

“Okay, Jack. New objective.” Lifting her chin, she squares her shoulders. “I say we up the stakes of the rivalry. Brad will be gone soon enough, and I agree we can call a draw there. But this special agent? He really does have to go.”

“And how do you suggest either of us accomplish that, petal?”

Her eyebrows hike at the pet name. “Honestly, you have no sense of fun, Jack.” She steps close. “Use your imagination.” Then she moves around me.

“Where are you going?”

“As much as I enjoy freezing to death with you in the cold room, I think we might want to leave. Separately. Soon. You know, so as not to cause suspicion.” She smiles and bats her thick eyelashes. “Unless you want our colleagues to think we’re having an affair.”

At my severe silence, she exhales heavily and says, “For appearance’s sake, I’m going to join the search party.”

I nod. “Good idea.”

“So thrilled to gain your approval.”

As she reaches for the door, I circle my fingers around her wrist. “Get rid of the ribbon from the flowers,” I tell her. “Dispose of the body.”

She holds my gaze. “Stay here for another few minutes before you leave,” she says, directing her own order. “Your cold-hearted self can take it.”

A fleeting image of being buried beneath a bank of cold white dust covers my vision, momentarily stalling me, and Kyrie pulls out of my grasp. The memory fades as quickly as Kyrie slips through the door.

I’m left in the cold room with more questions than when I entered, and a hard cock. A flare of anger bites into my resolve to remain behaved. The urge to stalk and hunt my prey pulses in my veins, but with a fed lurking around town, there will be no satisfaction tonight.

I’ll have to get my rocks off another way.