Someone walks out of The Oak and calls his name, so I step back. “Well, uh…”
“I’ll see you around.”
“Definitely.”
I turn and walk away, and once I reach my car, I slide into the driver’s seat, his story replaying in my mind.
I fasten my seat belt and start the engine, but a thought nags at me, persistent and unsettling.
Why would someone who had just murdered a woman in cold blood with a machete attack a potential witness… with apocketknife?
the almost kiss[trope]
a time-honored rom-com ritual where two characters lean in, hearts pounding, lips dangerously close—only to be interrupted by a phone call or an oblivious best friend; carefully designed to keep audiences screaming
Someone’s in my house.
I freeze with the key inches away from the lock, and my pulse thunders in my ears, louder than the muffled chatter seeping through the door. I don’t need to be a detective to recognize the low, rumbling tones of two men talking—one voice sharp, almost mocking, the other deep and even.
Rafael.
Why is Rafael inside my house?
My key scrapes the lock as I turn it, the metallic click cutting through the silence that falls inside.
The first person I see is Rafael. He’s slouched against the foot of the couch, long legs bent, arms resting loosely on his knees. The dim light from the window cuts across the black mesh of his sweater over the lean lines of his torso, and a couple of silver chains shift against the fabric as he turns. Then I notice my brother sitting next to him.
“Ethan?”
His dark blond hair sticks up in uneven tufts, and he looks pale under the bruising around his eye—a purplish smear that still hasn’t fully healed. He waves but doesn’t take his eyes off the TV, gripping his controller tightly.
Rafael gets to his feet in one fluid push, the oversize sweater slouching off one shoulder slightly before he tugs it back up. “Hey. Welcome home.”
I’m so confused.
“Thank you. What”—my eyes move to the game console sitting on my TV bench—“is happening?”
“I used my key,” Ethan says simply.
Rafael heads to the kitchen, gesturing for me to follow with a tilt of his ringed fingers. After a moment of hesitation, I do, finding him filling a cup with coffee.
“I promised I’d check on him.” He adds two spoonfuls of sugar, then walks to the fridge and grabs the milk. “I did. Then I figured you’d be happy to see him, so I asked if he wanted to play something on my old console.” He adds just a touch of milk, then turns around and holds the cup out.
I take it, the warmth seeping into the palms of my hands. “Are you, uh”—what was that line he annotated for me?—“anticipating my needs even before I express them?”
He snickers. “I take it you liked my annotations?”
“Very much. And I wrote an episode forPassion & Pages, too.”
“You did?” He looks around, as if he’s searching for actual paper. “Well, can I read it?”
“No,” I blurt out. “I mean, maybe. Once Celeste approves it.”
“Which she will.”
I smile, grateful for his blind confidence. “Anyway, I need to thank you. For luring Ethan here, but also the book. I know it must have taken you a long time, and it was a really sweet thought.”
With his back leaning against the table, he smiles in that same charming, cocky way that always kicks the breath out of my chest. “As I said, I missed you. And I had plenty of free time.”
