It's the only answer you get.
Are you dangerous?
Yes.
To me?
I count to ten before answering. Emma asked once if I was dangerous. I said no, and was wrong. My world killed her. Different kind of danger. Same result.
Not in the way you're thinking.
What way then?
The way that makes you take your shirt off for a stranger.
That was a moment of weakness.
That was a moment of truth.
She doesn't respond for thirteen minutes. I count each one. Then lose count around seven when I remember the Spanish. Start over. Thirteen.
I made too many tamales. Stress-cooking is my toxic trait.
Mail me some.
To where? Murderer's house, Danger Lane, Bad Decisions, New Mexico?
I almost smile. Almost. Emma would've liked her. The humor. The darkness underneath. The way she doesn't pretend things are fine.
Go to sleep, Angel.
Can't. Too wired. Too... processed.
Touch yourself again.
Absolutely not.
You're already thinking about it.
I'm thinking about a lot of things. Like why I'm texting someone who could be plotting my murder.
If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't need texts.
That's not reassuring.
Wasn't meant to be.
I sense that Ghost is watching me. He knows I'm gone. Lost to whatever this is. Whoeversheis.
"You need backup?" he asks. “You seem really sucked into whater conversation you got going on there.”
"For what?"
"For whatever stupid thing you're about to do."
"No."
"You sure?"
