Page 74 of Crocodile Tears

He rolled off the bed, took a deep gulp of whisky, and opened the window.

“Yeah, I have.”

He unzipped his fly and pissed over the reporters below, laughing as they scattered like ants, cursing up at him as they ran. Then he slammed the window shut and fell on his bed, with crocodile tears streaming down his face.

He spent the night and all of the next day in his room, snorting croc and drinking. He was woken from his stupor the following evening by loud cheers reverberating up and down the street. He walked blearily into the lounge to find Neil bouncing up and down on the sofa in front of the screen.

“What just happened?” he asked.

“Charles won the gold medal!”

Alex stared at the screen, showing his brother sitting in his boat on some faraway stretch of water, his chest heaving as he punched the air with both his fists. It looked almost exactly like his moment of victory at Long Lake, four years previously.

“Oh,” Alex muttered, and went back to bed.

The news sites were immediately full of both Charles’s triumph and Alex’s disgrace, publishing photos side by side that contrasted the two – Charles in his wheelchair, smiling as he accepted his gold medal, and Alex, dark and glowering at his bedroom window, pissing on the reporters below.

A Tale of Two Brothersproclaimed one headline, while another went for a sneakier joke, captioning the photos simply:Golden Boys.

Chapter Thirteen

OCTOBER 2095

Josiah

There was a crowd of reporters, social media sleuths, and paparazzi waiting outside Inquisitus when Josiah arrived for work – far bigger than when he’d left the previous day. As soon as they saw his duck, they descended on him.

“Investigator Raine – do you have any news about who murdered Elliot Dacre?” one of them asked, shoving a microphone under his nose.

“No,” he replied shortly.

“Would you tell us if you did?”

“What do you think?”

“Indiehunter! Indiehunter! Here – over here! Have you charged Alexander Lytton with Dacre’s murder?”

“Nobody has been charged yet.”

“What happened to your face, Investigator Raine? Did Lytton attack you?”

Josiah ignored the question and pushed the man aside.

“Will you be charging Lytton?” another demanded, standing right in front of him, her hands planted on her hips.

“If we do, I’ll be sure to rush out here and tell youimmediately,” he replied, with the sardonic tilt of his head for which he’d become famous.

“If?” She stood there, unmoving. “Yet another innocent houder has been mowed down in cold blood, and you’re saying ‘if’ you charge him?”

“Your assumption that Dacre’s indentured servant had anything to do with his murder is premature. Now – move.”

“Oh, come on. We all know he’s guilty. Alexander Lytton is a spoilt brat with no conscience.”

“Is he?” Josiah asked, feeling oddly defensive of the man in his custody.

A dozen microphones were immediately thrust under his nose.

“What have you found out, Investigator Raine?”

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