“Oh, you!” I elbowed him in the stomach and sat up. “It wasn’t a severed head.”
“Finger?”
“Nope.”
“Foot?”
I shook my head. “I told you already. It was a marble bust.”
“That’s much too boring for your typical theatrics. Last night it was a dead body and tonight it was the potential murder weapon. Does that mean you can expect the killer to come knocking tomorrow, or do you think he’ll toy with you some more?”
Okay, sometimes Milo’s sense of humor runs a little on the macabre side, but I knew he didn’t really want the killer to come knocking on my door. He had the twisted mind of Stephen King but sometimes his attention span resembled that of a five-year-old.
The killer entered the back door and silently crept up the back staircase, careful to avoid the creaks in the steps he had discovered the last time he was in her house. He was only a few feet away from the top when… Squirrel!
I giggled at my inner musings, but shook my head when Milo raised a brow in question. He wouldn’t find it nearly as funny as I did.
“You think a crazed killer on the loose is funny?” he asked.
“No, I think the idea that the killer has a personal vendetta against me is funny.”
“I think you need to consider moving in here until he’s captured just to be safe,” Mom said.
“Yeah, Mae. Your bedroom is in the exact same shape that you left it,” Milo said. “Same posters and pictures on the wall and all your trophies still lining the shelves. I bet Mom goes in there every week to dust them just in case you ever need to move back home.”
“I do not,” Mom rebutted.
“More like once a month,” Dad countered. “She does your old room too.”
“Well, it isn’t because I’m expecting my kids to move back home, Dennis. You know damned well I can’t sleep if there’s dust in the house.”
“Of course, I know it,” my dad replied. “That doesn’t make it sane.”
“Sane? Are you saying I’m insane?”
“Just when it comes to dust,” my father answered calmly.
I could sense that my mom was working up to a good snit. I might rather tango with a killer than watch my parents argue on a Saturday night. As if I emitted a distress signal, Elijah chose that exact minute to call me.
“Hello?”
“I got extra rolls, Freckles. Emma put in some cinnamon butter for you. She said you love it.”
“Aww, I do.”
“I think they just got engaged,” Milo said to my parents.
“What?” my parents asked at the same time. I shook my head and elbowed my brother again.
“Your house or mine?” I asked Elijah.
“I imagine you’ll feel more comfortable in your own bed, so we’ll hang at your house tonight.”Bed?I wanted to tease him about his assumption, but let it go, especially with my family hanging onto my every word.
“Sounds good.”
“Maegan, I didn’t mean to imply that…”
“I know,” I assured Elijah. “I’ll see you in fifteen minutes or less.”
