“Come on, Blue,” I use the nickname I gave her. “You can’t stay mad at me forever.”
That makes her cave. “Are you ever going to tell me why you call me that?”
“Probably not.”
“Whatever. I don’t want to know anyway.”
“Your attempt at reverse psychology is cute.”
She shoots me a look. “So annoying.”
I huff a laugh and stay alert as we make our way to the store.
A few minutes later, I park and spot my backup. Shep keeps his distance, but stays close enough that I feel comfortable not looking over my shoulder every two seconds as I trail behind Annie and shop for my own food. She takes her sweet time reading labels and throwing stuff in her cart, but I don’t blameher. It’s one of the very few opportunities we have to venture outside the safe house, so I secretly appreciate her lack of urgency.
Shep follows us through checkout until I turn down the driveway, but he stays at the apron until I do a sweep of the house and give him theall clear.
Annie is in the kitchen putting groceries away, and when she sees me, she announces, “I’m gonna go take a shower.”
“Good, you stink.”
“So do you.”
“Bullshit.” I lift my shirt to my nose. “I smell like the ocean.”
“Maybe an ocean shore filled with garbage.” She mutters as she disappears up the stairs.
I plug in my computer, and as soon as I hear the water turn on, I call my older brother, Drew.
He picks up on the first ring. “Yo. You good?”
“Yeah. Everything good at home?”
“All’s well, except it’s been way too long since you’ve been here. I can’t believe how long this case is dragging on.”
No shit. This assignment was not supposed to take this long. Eight weeks, tops, not more than double that. But apparently, when the governor’s son is on trial for murder, things have a way of getting delayed and rescheduled. “It is what it is.”
“What’s up, Ben?”
“Nothing.” I open the screen and type in the password. “Just had a minute and wanted to check—”
“Ben!” Annie yells. I spin around, have my foot on the second step, and my fingers wrap around the gun holstered at my waist before my phone hits the floor. “I know it’s my turn to make dinner, but I’m kind of…” She goes rigid at the top of the stairs when she spots me, and I freeze at the bottom when I see her—safe. “…craving your spaghetti.”
Christ, I’m on edge.“That’s fine. I’ll make it.” I try to play it cool, but my heart is still lodged in my throat.
She tilts her head and asks apprehensively, “Are you sure?” Her eyes dart to my hand.
I’m always armed, but it’s clear that seeing me reach for it makes her nervous. I unlatch my fingers so I can cross my arms and draw her attention away from my gun. “Yes. I’ll cook. Any other requests?”
She taps her finger on her chin, considering. “Just make sure you grate a plethora of cheese.”
I cock a brow. “Is that your word of the day?”
She pulls her shoulders back and holds her head high. “Plethoric. Adjective. Going beyond a normal or acceptable limit in degree or amount. P-L-E-T-H-O-R-APlethora.” She does a little curtsy before twirling away.
I can’t help but laugh, and when I turn around, something crunches under my boot.
“Shit.” My phone. I pick it up and put it to my ear. “Drew? You still there?”
