She snorted. “Please. We’ve been living together for two months, and he still hasn’t gotten around to mentioning it to his family? He gets what he gets.”
“In that case, let me buy you a drink.”
“Make it cold and sugary,” she said.
Kellen returned with a jar of cold brew flavored liberally with caramel and sweet cream. “So, now that you’ve helped me ruin Nick’s day, what had you running here straight from Boot Camp for Grannies?”
“It wasn’t a boot campforgrannies. It was a boot camp my grandmother was running. Never mind. Forget about that part. And yes, I am aware how crazy this sounds. But you’re just going to have to deal with it.”
“Consider it dealt with.”
“Good. I had this vision of Bianca alive in her closet, and then I was ripped out of the closet and flying across the river.”
Kellen watched her closely.
She took a gulp of coffee and swiped the back of her hand over her mouth.
“Then I see this guy kind of hovering above Enola. I think it was symbolic? Like psychic GPS. I don’t think he was thrown from a plane. Anyway, here’s where it gets weird.”
“Oh, it hasn’t gotten weird yet?” Kellen teased.
“Need I remind you that it’s your fault I’m here?”
“Apologies.”
“You know, men who say that don’t know how to apologize.”
Riley grinned as Jasmine Patel—best friend, family/elder law attorney, and Indian-American bombshell—pulled up a chair. “Hey! What are you doing here?”
Jasmine plunked down a black coffee. “I just finished an appointment with a couple on Maclay Street. What the hell happened to you?”
“Oh, you know. My grandmother is in town and insisted on torturing me with a psychic boot camp, and then I came here to tell Detective Weber about a vision I had about a case he’s working and ended up finding him having coffee with Nick’s mom, who had no idea her son was dating anyone let alone living with someone.”
“So the usual then,” Jasmine said. She turned to Kellen and raised an eyebrow. “Why were you having coffee with Nick’s mom?”
Riley frowned. “Yeah. Why?”
“Are you having an affair with Nick’s mom, Detective Assface?”
“No, I’m not sleeping with Marie, and I really don’t think I have an assface,” Kellen scoffed.
Jasmine pinned him with a look. “You have the face that I tell you you have.”
Her best friend apparently hadn’t quite forgiven the detective for labeling Riley a person of interest in the recent murder of her across-the-hall neighbor, Dickie. Jasmine’s fierce loyalty was Riley’s favorite character trait. That and her ability to hold copious amounts of alcohol.
“Are you trying to arrest my friend again?” Jasmine demanded. “Because if you are, I’ll have your badge.” She stabbed the table with a shiny, red fingernail.
Weber leaned in. “Not as long as she stays on the right side of the law. And I’d like to see you try.”
Riley snapped her fingers between their faces to end the glaring contest. “Guys. Can we focus on the exploding shiny dead guy?”
Jasmine wrinkled her nose. “Ew. What?”
Riley ran through her explanation quickly between slurps of cold brew. “Then he just exploded into sparkles. Oh, and he was wearing this confederate flag shirt that said something like ‘Stomp My Flag I’ll Stomp Your Ass.’”
“Husky guy? Looks like he and the shower weren’t on speaking terms?” Jasmine asked.
Riley frowned. “Yeah. Thinning hair on top but a ponytail down the back.”
