There's light peaking through he crack between the door and the carpet, which means Leight is still awake. Peter takes a deep breath and presses one hesitant knock against the door.
"Come in."
He opens the door, steps in, shuts the door again.
Sure enough, Leight is awake. The halogen desk lamp is on, and Leight is seated there with his laptop open.
"Have you read Clinard's research on psychopathy and deviance?" he asks, running his fingers through his already disheveled hair without turning around or stopping his scrolling.
"No," Peter mutters, shifting uneasily on his fuzzy slippers as he continues to stare at Leight's back.
His chest tightens, and he tries to remember what's important—because it sure as hell isn't what his mother thinks of him or what Rachel did (or does) to him. What is important is this, this wonderful man before him.
He takes another shaky breath and stutters, "Mal?"
And in a heartbeat, Leight spins the office chair around and becomes perfectly serious, caring, heartfelt in his sincerity. "What is it?"
"Nothing," Peter answers much too quickly.
"Peter," Leight looks on skeptically, "it isn't nothing."
"It isn't anything."
"Peter. Tell me what you need."
Peter swallows. "I need you to hold me."
Leight just nods. He gestures to the bed. He puts out the light.
The down comforter is heavy as Peter crawls under it. A moment later, Leight is beside him. There's a bit of shuffling, but eventually Peter rests his head against Leight's chest and Leight's arms close around him.
He sighs and regulates his breathing.
This is good, he thinks, as he begins to concentrate on the patterns (letters? words? symbols?) Leight is tracing on his arm.
This important—so important, more important than anything else. And this is enough, more than enough, to be here, in spite of everything and everyone else.
They're silent for a while until Leight murmurs, "Are you going to tell me, or should I guess?"
Peter laughs in spite of himself. "You're never right."
"I'm infallible."
"Not when it comes to me."
As soon as he says it, he regrets it. He honestly didn't mean it like that. Because he isn't mad at Leight, not anymore; this isn't even about Leight, and yet—
Leight sobers up instantly. "I'm getting better." He stops tracing letters, words, symbols. "Aren't I?"
"Mal," Peter sighs, angry with himself for bringing out this side of Leight, "you're brilliant."
And he wants to laugh because he knows Leight has said these exact words to him.
"You're wonderful, so much more than I'd hoped, and I—" he stops himself before he finishes the sentence with the three-word phrase he can't take back. He would mean it, of course, because he does love Leight—more than himself, really—but he can't say it when he is vulnerable and Leight is insecure.
"Mal," he tries again, "please."
"All right." Leight hugs him just a little closer, and even through two layers of parent-friendly pajamas, the contact is bliss. "I'll guess."
It takes Peter a moment to remember Leight's threat. He doesn't have sufficient time to phrase his problem tactfully.
"You were fine before dinner, so the culprit could only have been one of the Chatterleys, your mother, or me. You said it wasn't me. Mrs. Chatterley didn't say anything at dinner. Ryan didn't say anything important. Well, none of them did, but that's hardly the point. It was either something your mother said or something Rachel did. Shall I continue?"
"No," Peter's a bit in awe, honestly, because Leight's guesses are usually wrong, "you're right. It's both of them."
"But mostly Rachel."
"But mostly that I want to tell them all that I'm madly in love with you." It takes precisely two seconds for Peter to realize what he said.
"Peter."
He's half glad, half terrified that he can't see Leight's face.
"I'm sorry," he panics. "I didn't mean—" But the truth is, he does mean it, and he won't lie, not about this.
"I didn't mean to say it," he finishes lamely. His mind is racing. He tries to sit up, to pull away.
But Leight keeps him close. "Shh," he whispers, "don't apologize. Pay attention." Then he resumes the pattern-tracing on Peter's arm.
Peter's heart flutters as he follows the shapes, lines and curves, letters and symbols, a meaning he can't deny.
I 3 you.
.
.
"There's been another one."
"Another what?" Peter's brain is not quite awake.
It can't be six in the morning because the sun isn't even up yet. He's still in bed with Leight, and talking to Rachel on his cell phone is the last thing he wants to be doing. He honestly doesn't know how she got his number. Unless his mother gave it to her, which is a distinct possibility.
"Another murder." She sounds pissed. "Please get your detective to the Club immediately."
"I—" Suddenly Peter's heart is pounding. He can't quite believe it. "Who?"
"Tyler Claymore."
Shit. Fuck.
"You don't get it," Peter says as they stand in Tyler Claymore's office at the Club.
By this time, Leight has kicked everyone else out of the room, on the pretense that he can't think clearly in the presence of other people. (It's not entirely a lie.)
Sheriff Winters and Rachel protested, but they can't exactly argue with what they know is their best chance of solving this case.
"I do get it," Leight argues absently as he studies the head that stands proudly on its desk. "He was a big man. In the anthropological sense, of course, because physically, he appears to have been rather gnome-like."
"He wasn't just any big man," Peter protests. "He founded this town. He owned everything. This is a big fucking deal, Mal."
"He was close to death anyway."
"No one else is going to see it like that."
Leight shrugs. "Are you ready to stop worrying about the press and examine the thing already?"
Peter sighs but does as he's told. He uses a gloved hand to tilt the head so he can look at the neck. "It's the same as McPherson. Perimortem with a smooth blade."
"And there are traces of ash in the hair, so this is the same killer. Which means that all reasons Claymore might have been killed are irrelevant because we know this killer doesn't care."
Then Leight turns around and goes to the middle of the room. He promptly sits down, straight-backed and cross-legged.
Peter frowns. He puts the head back in position, peels off his glove, and then goes to crouch in front of Leight. "Do you want me to leave?"
"Don't be daft." Leight meets his eyes before grabbing his wrist and tugging him downward.
"If you're sure," Peter says softly. He rearranges his legs until he's somewhat comfortable. "What are you thinking?"
"I have a theory," Leight says firmly, his eyes hard.
"Really?" Peter blinks. "Who?"
"Rachel Chatterley."
"What? You can't be serious."
"She's a sociopath, Peter. She doesn't care what she does to you."
"But she wouldn't." Peter's reeling. "She wouldn't kill." Only spiders and flies, not a person. "She couldn't."
"No," Leight concedes after a moment, "she couldn't. She isn't strong enough to move a grown man's body or to wield a blade with sufficient force to decapitate someone this cleanly."
"Besides," Leight pauses, his expression shifting, "she's rather like a cat. She takes pleasure in torturing her victims. The kill itself is meaningless."
"Then why did you say it was her?"
"Because I wish it was," Leight replies calmly. "I would take great pleasure in seeing her arrested."
.
.