Page 20 of Psychopath

“I’m sure that can be fixed…”

“What?”

Zane dropped his gaze, and Quinn followed his line of sight to his watch. He grasped it, sighed, and then adjusted the dial. “Oh right, the watch, yeah…I keep forgetting.”

“You wanted to know about me and my dad fishing?”

Quinn smiled and picked up his pencil. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

“Okay,” Zane mumbled, leaning forward, and with a fond grin, he started to recall tales.

There was no traumatic occurrence between Zane and his dad. Not unless he was burying it under a veil of fake sincerity. There was one trip when they caught nothing and distracted another fisherman to steal his bounty. A trip where they caught a fish so large it wriggled and knocked Zane into the water. His contented expression seemed to open his dark eyes, allowing Quinn to see his brown irises, the warm soul of the man in front of him, and there were moments Quinn forgot he was talking to a murderer at all.

There were moments where he had to bite his tongue to stop asking questions.

He had to look down, remind himself these were the questions, the script to stick to.

“It must’ve been really hard when he died,” Quinn said, inwardly bracing for Zane to lose it.

Zane cracked his jaw. His smile faded. His eyes looked dark again. “They said I fell off the wagon after.”

“Who said that?”

“The press, the company. Shares plummeted. One photograph where I hadn’t straightened my tie or tucked in my shirt, and suddenly I was an alcoholic. I was spiralling out of control with booze as my buddy, and I couldn’t seem to do anything right. There were all sorts of ridiculous allegations being thrown at me from every angle.”

“Were you a heavy drinker before he died?”

“No…I didn’t start drinking alcohol until I was labelled an alcoholic…”

“I don’t understand.”

“One day you will, but it looks like our time’s up for now.”

Quinn glanced at the clock and sank into his chair. “You’re right.”

“Same time next week,” Zane said, getting to his feet. He tapped the back of his wrist. “Don’t be late…”

Quinn snorted at his slowing watch. “I won’t be.”

4

Noah didn’t look like the typical hardened criminal.

He was short, slim, and his youthful features gave him a childlike look.

Quinn did a double-take the first time they met, convinced Noah wasn’t the same man in the file.

Noah smiled knowingly and introduced himself as the baby-faced mass murderer.

They were the same age, a mere twenty-three, but Noah had taken a very different path in life. Noah had poisoned the punch at a house party, killing six young men and women and putting several more in hospital.

Noah picked his painted nails in a repetitive manner, getting more and more irritated as flecks of black covered the table.

“Why not…take it off?” Quinn asked.

Noah glanced up and lifted his eyebrows. “That’s what I am doing.”

“Oh.”

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