“Convenient,” she mutters loudly enough for her voice to carry.
“Are you having a why choose romance next door?” the older lady calls. “Are you actually marrying more than one man on Saturday?”
“No, Mrs. Kapinski, but someone did break into my house,” Sloane calls back.
“He was breaking into your house?” a guy calls from somewhere else on the street. “I saw a dude hanging out when I got home for lunch. I thought it was weird since you’re engaged to the lost Bro Code guy, but like Mrs. K. says, if we didn’t even know you were dating him, how many other fiancés are you keeping from us?”
“Are you serious right now? Someonebroke into my house, and you want to know if I’m living out one of our book club books?”
“Somebody has to be,” Mrs. Kapinski says. “We want it to be you.”
Chester’s flashlight bobs in the doorway, lighting up the electrician’s van across the street. “You saw someone, Vinnie?”
“Yeah, guy looked familiar,” Vinnie calls back. “But I can’t place him.”
“This young man knows who he is,” Mrs. Kapinski yells. “I think they’re having a polyamorous lover’s quarrel over who gets to say vows first.”
They’d be hilarious if Sloane’s house hadn’t been trashed.
“Can you ask him who it is?” Chester says to Sloane. “I, ah, need to go call in for backup.”
“It’s yourfreaking job,” Sloane says.
“Yeah, and…”
Whatever he mutters doesn’t carry over the yard.
Doesn’t matter.
Pretty sure I know what he’s saying.
And he’s the missing Bro Code guy.
Basic gist of it.
So fun, being themissing Bro Code guy.
Never been missing. Anyone who’s needed to know where I am has always known.
And I’m in Shipwreck often enough that the deputy fucking knows I’m not missing.
“Also, you can’t stay here tonight,” Chester adds. “It’s a crime scene. Like, a real one. Not the kind where Tillie Jean calls and complains that Cooper left a crime scene at her house.”
I don’t hear Sloane answer, but I feel a shiver ripple the air.
Highly doubt she’d want to stay there tonight.
I wait until Chester’s at his car, then I bid Mrs. Kapinski a good night with whatever she needs to make it a good night, and cross the lawn back to Sloane’s house.
She’s sitting on the front step, shoulders sagging.
The cat’s audibly purring.
No coat, so I shrug out of mine and drape it over her shoulders. “Go ask Vinnie if it was Patrick Dixon.”
That’s a look.
Lucky I’m not shriveling up into the crusted remains of a dead toad right now.
