Page 71 of The Villains of Winter

“What were you upset about?”

James fought back an eye roll. “I imagine I was upset that he was taunting Elliott before he was due for death. I thought it was cruel, and I told him to lessen his taunting, that’s all. I know how much Lucien likes to joke around, but Elliott was sensitive. That’s it.” James knew he had to admit to at least the bare minimum. He needed to appear human, but not murderous. “For a minute, I was angry.”

“Angry enough to find and kill him?” Pritchard questioned intently. “Especially when you already had a knife-related incident with the deceased beforehand?”

“He’s not deceased,” James said, knowing their follow up question would be where James held him captive. “He’s missing as far as I know. I left with my friends that morning. As you can see on the footage, we were holding hands, and chatting about the recitation.” Asininely, James had even maintained close friendships with the actors and crew afterward. In mid-February, for Lupercalia, he’d flown to Cannes with Iris and her understudy Pepper, tumbling into a fevered, late night ménage à trois. “We left. I knew the hibernal ceremony was happening ahead of time. I made peace with it all.”

“You made peace with your best friend’s death that quickly?” Reyes sounded unconvinced.

“I did. I knew the hibernal ceremony happens every winter. As Æscwulf College students, we all expect it every year.”

“You knew Elliott would be chosen?”

“I knew it was a possibility.” James pointed at himself. “Even I could’ve been chosen that day. However, Lucien didn’t select me because we don’t hate each other. He didn’t hate Elliott either. It was nothing personal.”

Pritchard tried to read his gaze, scrutinizing every wrinkle of his lineament, except James didn’t have a single crease. Except where his eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled. “Lucien owes me a beer, if anything. That was the worst day of my life.”

Reyes said the five syllables that made James flinch, no matter how many times he practiced a centered blank expression. No matter how desperately he tried to become a contortionist, attempting to contour his features into their proper place, he couldn’t. James was traumatized from the hibernal ceremony. He was haunted by nightmares where he could’ve lost Elliott. He was tormented by the possibility that he still might lose him.

“Elliott Archway.” It was early in the routine for Reyes to mention him. James hoped he recovered his composed expression quickly enough. “You two slept together, didn’t you?”

“Not romantically.”

“Sexually?”

“Never.”

“Did you shower together?”

“Not in the same stall, unless you count the locker room for athletics when we were younger.”

“But you slept together frequently?”

“Often. As I’ve stated, Elliott had night terrors.”

“On the tape, you embraced and kissed each other. Granted, not on the lips, but it betrayed the intimacy you shared. Intimate enough for you to kill for him?” The question was rhetorical. Reyes went on. “Lucien desecrated his body by fire. I can’t imagine you took that lightly when you heard about it. I doubt even further that you’d want to share a beer with him.”

“I went home for the holidays. I didn’t hear about Elliott’s body burning until Lucien was already reported missing miles away. The strange part is…I think that’s what broke Lucien.”

“Broke him?”

“I can’t imagine you can do that to a person and not mentally crack. It’s one thing to kill someone, it’s another thing entirely to endure the visual memories of the burning, the stench of burnt tissue, the cauterized skin, the carbonized musculature…” James stopped himself before he finished his sentence. His eyes widened. “I think he immediately regretted it. I’ve done my part to make peace with it and, yes, I’d drink a beer with him to clear out the past.” He smiled. “An alcoholic beer, admittedly. I turned twenty-one last September.”

“You’re wealthy. You could’ve hired a contract killer.” Pritchard refused to entertain the notion that Lucien was forgiven by him. The moment he saw James press his mouth against Elliott’s temple, he called it for what it was–a homicide.

He knew by James’s darkened expression that James would murder Lucien. Not right then and there, but eventually, he would kill for the idealist, heterochromatic young man he slept beside at night. It all fit.

There was simply the lack of concrete evidence.

“Hire a killer?” James thought about it. “I wouldn’t even know where to start, really. Not to mention, the killer would’ve barely had time between when I hired them after Elliott’s name was announced and when Lucien was reported missing. That’s if they were already in-state and if they were prepared enough. I wouldn’t even have time to vet them. What if they were in another state? Does southeast Connecticut have that many contract killers open for hire at the last minute? I can’t even imagine a nuptial caterer could be that quick during the busiest holiday season.”

“You might’ve–”

“I went home for Yule.” His father’s kitchen staff attested to it. The house manager even went out of her way to send a mass email notice that James had returned and to prepare Christmas Eve dinner with his favorites that year–salted cod, champagne-drenched Arroz Natalino, rabanada, panettone, and a hard Caipirinha with cachaça. James had a fondness for English Christmas meals as well, a predilection inherited from his English grandfather, and on Christmas morning, he indulged in a full English breakfast. He’d made sure to take plenty of holiday photographs with the estate staff around the annual roasted ham, mince pies, mulled wine, scalloped potatoes, sautéed Brussel sprouts, and Christmas puddings.

His alibi was air-tight. For the most part.

They’d exhausted their lines of interrogation, and he knew it. It was only a matter of willpower at this point, the detectives capitulating first, or himself.