“The one at the recording studio, right?” Mitch clarifies.
“Yeah.”
“This guy, he’s…inconsistent,” Mitch explains. “Sometimes, like yesterday, he’s very basic. A note telling you to stop being a—” Mitch clears his throat. The tips of his ears turn bright pink.
“You can say it. I’ve heard worse. And I’ve seen some of the notes.”
“Alright. He threatens you for being gay. Which, considering very few people know this,” his gaze meets mine and I shrug. “Since we’re assuming very few people know this, it’s disturbing just from that basic fact. It points to an ex-lover, most likely.”
“Except I’ve never had a boyfriend,” I admit. “The studio… forget it.” I wave him off, not wanting to discuss the studio giving me constant grief over my public image. “And lots of people suspect I’m gay. There are a ton of articles and discussions about it. All you have to do is Google ‘Gavin Walker gay’.”
Mitch blushes again. My guess is he already looked me up and discovered this.
“Well, that’s the other part. The studio, in particular, doesn’t want you to come out. Am I right?”
I nod.
“Is it possible this guy is taking care of a problem for them?”
An icy tendril grips the back of my neck. “What are you saying, Mitch? That the studio is threatening me in hopes of keeping me in the closet?” The thought is sobering, and one that’s occurred to me before.
“Maybe. But that’s where the inconsistency comes in. The anti-gay threats are one part. The other stuff is more…I guess I’d say more typical of a true psychopath.”
“What do you mean?”
“Psychopaths don’t have empathy. They simply do whatever they want to do to get their desired result. We’re all lesser beings to them and in their minds we’re most definitely not as smart. They’re the cats and we’re just the mice to play around with until the day they get tired of the game and finish us off.”
“That’s horrible.” I shudder at the thought of people acting like animals.
“It’s what I did for years,” Mitch reveals.
“How did you end up doing that? Serial killers, I mean. You have to admit it’s kind of gruesome.”
Mitch leans back in his chair until the front legs leave the ground. He scratches his fingers through his thick morning stubble. “I received a dual degree in behavioral science and forensic science thinking I’d be a police detective. There were FBI recruiters on campus one day…” He looks at me. “I lived and went to school in D.C. Anyway, they described their career track and it sounded interesting. I joined the bureau right after graduation.”
“Why law enforcement, then? It seems you were always drawn to it.” I don’t know why I keep asking questions. But as long as Mitch is willing to answer them, I’m not stopping. He’s fascinating. And it gives me a legitimate reason to stare at his perfect face.
“I’m not sure, exactly. My dad worked security at the embassy in London. I learned a lot about crime from him. I was originally going to study psychology. When I got to college the psychology of criminals interested me, so I pursued it.” Something tells me this isn’t the reason for his chosen profession, but I let it go to ask something more interesting.
“You lived in London?”
“My mom is British. I was born in London, lived there for eight years, and had dual citizenship until I joined the bureau. They made me surrender my U.K. passport.”
“That explains a few things.”
“Like what?” Mitch is looking at me expectantly.
I smirk. “Sometimes you have a slight accent. I couldn’t place it. It makes sense now, Utah.”
“Hmph,” he grunts. “Most people don’t notice.”
“My mom is from London, so I grew up with it. I also spent a year there after getting out of the inst—I mean after getting out of high school. That’s where I met Adam and Dax.”
“Interesting.” Mitch slugs back the rest of his coffee, gets up, and rinses the mug in the sink. He winces as he shuffles across the kitchen. “We should get going.”
“Going where?”
“I told you, we can’t stay here. It’s too open, too accessible, and this guy knows where you are.”