Page 46 of The Turning of the Tables

“Maybe it’s not this case,” he finally said, still prodding my foot.

“Then what?” I asked.That isn’t Elliot. Not that Elliot wasbotheringme, exactly. I liked texting with him. I liked talking with him. I liked… well,obviouslyI liked that part. I just didn’t want it to end—and, honestly, Iwantedit to keep growing, but goddamn Rule Two was sitting there like a giant, drooling troll in the middle of the bridge demanding that I pay its toll.

“Another case?” Noah asked.

I was about to say I didn’t think so when it occurred to me that it very well might be. “Maybe,” is what I said out loud.

Noah’s foot stilled on mine. “Maybe?” he repeated.

I sighed. “I can’t talk about it,” I mumbled.

“You can tell me.” We’d always told each other our secrets when we were kids. Where we’d hidden our treasures. About our crushes and our fights with friends. Our pubescent heartbreaks.

When Noah had figured out that he wasn’t meant to be Nora.

When I’d realized that I felt things for boys that everyone always said I’d feel for girls.

“I can’t, though,” I told him apologetically. I already told him more than I was supposed to. “It’s ongoing.”

“Ongoing?” Noah is way too smart for me to use that as an excuse. “As in, serial killer?” His voice rose in pitch and volume.

“Shut up, Nono,” I hissed, as though any of our neighbors were paying even the slightest bit of attention.

Noah waved one hand. “Nobody’s listening, Sethy. And even if James and Krista could hear you, they’re both high as kites anyway.”

Our neighbors—the people we shared a very thin living room wall with—were pot growers and smokers. I don’t begrudge people the occasional joint or edible, especially as someone with chronic pain, but our neighbors maybe overdid it a little. I couldn’t complain too loudly, though, because Noah had absolutely traded food for pot from them to make the medicinal brownies that lived in our freezer for the nights when the pain kept me from sleeping at all.

I don’t get to be a fun edible user—because the last thing I wanted to do was build up an increasing tolerance so that I’d need a lot more in order to do the same thing. As it was, I was usually eating a square every week or two. Only at night, though. I know better than to drive or go to work with that stuff in my system.

Fortunately, the crime lab was don’t-ask-don’t-tell about recreational or medical drug use. I knew the RPD was most definitely not, but other than when I got hired, nobody at the lab had ever asked me to pee in a cup for them. Whichwas a good thing, since the odds were high that I’d trip it at some point.

“Noah, I can’t talk about it,” I repeated.

“So itisa serial killer!”

I sat up enough to glare at him. Noah has an unhealthy obsession with true crime podcasts—and probably would have an equal obsession with streaming shows if I didn’t insist that I got enough of that at work, thank you very much. Maybe he watched them with Lulu, but that was not my problem.

“Nono.”

“Fine. You can’t talk about it.” A pause. “Are you sure you can’t at least tell me what’s bothering you? Without any of the other details?”

How do you tell your shifter twin brother that you’re afraid of catching Arcanavirus because it might turn you into what he is? It wasn’t so much that I didn’t want to be a shifter—although I didn’t, mostly because I knew that it would make my life much more difficult if people knew—but that I didn’t want to have to endure the process ofbecomingone. I’d seen some of what Noah had gone through, and it looked like ithurt like hell. I’m already in enough pain. I don’t need any more.

And yes, I also didn’t want to be a shifter because I didn’t want to have to be registered with the state. I didn’t want to have to worry about being the person who gets fired when there are budget cuts becausesomeonehas to go, so why not fire the shifter? I didn’t want to have people look at me, if they knew, like I was going to bite them or eat their children.

I’m already a big guy—people, women especially, already cross streets to get away from me because I’m imposing. Addshiftertosix-three-and-bigand I’d become a social pariah.

Okay, even more of a social pariah. But now I’m a pariah mostly by choice.

There’s also no way to explain that to someone whoisa shifter without coming across as the worst sort of hypocritical bigot.I love you, but I’m afraid of being like youjust isn’t a good look on anybody.

I could feel Noah’s blue eyes staring at me. “It’s just—” I sighed. “It feels really personal,” I said, feeling foolish. It did feel personal. I just couldn’t explain why without sounding like a complete asshole.

“Because of the victims?” Noah asked.

“Nono—”

“You can’t say, I know.” He paused a moment. “Which means I’m right.”