Page 52 of XO Karma

“Fine. Ever.” I clear my throat. “So, you tell your truth first.”

“Sometimes…” He leans forward, glancing around, and his voice drops to just above a whisper, drawing me in. “When I’m alone late at night”—his chest rises as he sucks in a heavy breath, his piercing eyes boring into mine as our faces are just a foot apart—“I lie in bed thinking about you straddling me with that knife while I touch my co—” My foot slams into his shin, and he grunts, stifling a groan as the table rattles.

“What the hell was that for?” he asks, reaching for his leg. I rest my back against the booth with a satisfied smile on my face. This motherfucker loves getting a rise out of me.

“You’re supposed to be sharing a relevant truth.”

“Relevant to what?” He bats his lashes, eyes dancing with mischief. “Rules were unclear.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “Tell me something I don’t know but you think I’d actually want to.” He opens his mouth. “And if it includes your hand on your dick, I’m kicking you between your shins this time.”

He bites his cheek, and his gaze turns serious. Calculating. “You really want to know?”

Swallowing hard, I nod. No turning back now. “Yes.”

He leans forward once more, hands folded on the table. “I know you’re Karma. The Karma.”

My lips part, heart pausing in my chest. My eyes dart around the room, oxygen getting thin.

“What would make you think that?” I ask, tone level.

He tsks. “I thought you said a truth for a truth? You’re gonna lie to me now, Karma baby?” My mouth opens and closes. What good would lying even do? “If you wanted to hide it from me”—he hooks a finger on his collar, tugging it down, exposing the top of the scar I carved—“you shouldn’t have been so obvious.” When I left the mark on him, I regretted it immediately. But the intrusive thoughts had won. It’s my calling card. Given he hadn’t mentioned it, I stupidly thought he missed the reference.

Clearing my throat, I accept the truth. “Guess I didn’t think you were that perceptive.”

“I’m a crime journalist. It’s my job to be perceptive.”

“It’s also your job to share the truth about what’s going on in this city, but I’m starting to wonder if the stories are bent to benefit you.”

“Is this regarding the Kodak-Killer-sized elephant in the room?” I shrug, and he rolls his eyes. “When are you going to accept that I’m. Not. Him.” Another lift of my shoulders, and his expression becomes increasingly more agitated. “I shared my truth. Now tell me, why were you following me?”

I readjust myself in my seat, the leather creaking beneath me. Here goes nothing. “A few weeks ago, after a new victim, I pulled out all the articles that have ever been written on the Kodak Killer.” My gaze holds his. “And I noticed only one name on the byline. Only one person who always seemed to have access and answers.”

“It’s my job,” he counters, but I don’t believe it’s that simple.

I lean forward, voice hushed. “Are those photos in your darkroom part of the job?”

“Not all of them.” His lips split into a slow, knowing grin. “But you’re well aware of that.”

“What do you mean?”

He bites his lower lip, then releases it slowly. “You took pose fourteen.”

My cheeks flame, and I swallow hard, trying to quell the embarrassment, but my throat is dry. I take a long sip of my milkshake, and the more time passes, the smugger Aster’s smile gets. I may give myself a brain freeze if I don’t stop soon, and my throat tightens, making breathing difficult. Have I suddenly developed a dairy intolerance or has oxygen left the atmosphere?

“You know—” I cough. “I don’t have anything appropriate to say.”

He barks a laugh. “That’s two of us.”

“Okay, well, let’s play devil’s advocate here,” I say to force the topic off me, and his eyes meet mine. “I’m going to pretend I believe for a moment”—I present a single finger—“a brief moment, that you are not the Kodak Kille⁠—”

“I’m not,” he cuts in, and I put up a hand.

“So let’s say you’re not the killer⁠—”

“I’m not.”

“So then the million-dollar question is, do you know who it is?”