He didn’t want to understand serial killers.
Not ever.
“Skeeter?”
Kit’s gaze was centered squarely on him, brows twitching downward in concern.
“Yeah?”
“What’s wrong?”
“I think I saw Catlin, the day the gate opened last week.”
“Really? What do you remember about him?”
Skeeter described Catlin, then added, “He had too much luggage for a grad student. Five big steamer trunks. Expensive ones.”
“He’s not the guy whose steamer trunk almost went off the platform, is he?” Kit asked abruptly, eyes narrowed.
Skeeter blinked in surprise. Then rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Uh, yeah. I think so. That was the name on the luggage tag. And he was white as any ghost, trying to keep it from falling.”
“I think,” Kit said in a tight, dangerous voice, “we’d better tell Ronisha Azzan about this, because it looks to me like Catlin may well have been one of the Ansar Majlis goons on Armstrong’s payroll. I find myself wondering what—or who—was in that trunk. And I’ll bet Ronisha Azzan will, too.”
“Aw, nuts . . . Kit, I heard she was meeting with Senator Caddrick again this morning, trying to figure out where his kid went. And if he sees me, he’s gonna remember I assaulted him, back at Primary. That kind of attention, I don’t need.”
“Nonsense,” Kit said firmly. “Nobody’s going to jail the guy who figured out where his kid’s kidnappers went.”
Skeeter had a terrible feeling he would find himself dragged down the Britannia Gate eight days from now as part of the search teams, after all. He wondered briefly if a bullet would’ve been waiting for him, if he’d stayed to haul those heavy steamer trunks to Catlin’s hotel? Skeeter sighed, then ran a hand through his hair. Why was it, going legit had turned into the hardest thing he’d ever tried to do? And considering his background, that was saying a lot.