“Irene said she comes over to water Veronica’s plants.”
“Yeah, so?” If he has a point, I’d like him to get to it. The longer we’re here, the more chance we have of being caught.
“Ken, do you see any plants?” Spencer asks patiently.
I freeze. A quick survey of the room proves his point. Motherfucker. “Not in her room?”
“None at all. No garden beds outside, no hanging plants. There’s not a single thing that requires watering on this property. And Irene mentioned someone who mows the lawn. There’s nothing to maintain.”
I rub my forehead. Shit. “The cake story was true.” One lie and a truth. I don’t like these kinds of games.
“Or a really fucking good alibi. We don’t really know when she baked it.”
“She can’t have killed her, Spence. Even if shewantedto, she doesn’t have the strength required to hold Veronica down or cause the bruising that we saw.”
“Accomplice?”
“For what purpose? It sounds like they had a good arrangement going on.” Mostly. Maybe Irene didn’t like how Veronica chose to spend her free time, but she got free gardening—if she’s telling the truth. Sounds like a sweet deal to me.
“I don’t claim to know why anyone commits murder. It doesn’t always have to make sense. Twist a mind around far enough, and eventually it creates its own reality. They can convince themselves they’re doing it for all the right reasons and justify it so they don’t have to feel guilty.”
So where the hell did that leave us?
Chapter eleven
Spencer
“How the fuck doyou have so much shit?” Every time I fill a box, more stuff appears out of nowhere. We’re not gonna have enough boxes at this rate, and I already bought out half the storage place.
“You keep acting like I live in an attic or something,” Kendrick says, scowling at me. We’re both getting twitchy after hours of packing. “This place is only alittlesmaller than yours, and I’ve lived here for years. When you live in a place for that long, you accumulate a lot of random stuff.”
“This isn’t accumulation. It’s a hoard.”
“I think you’re being a little dramatic. Besides that, moving in wasyouridea, so this is your fault.”
I have no regrets even if this whole “packing everything up” deal is kind of a nightmare. When he’s living with me, he won’t get to leave me. There won’t be any distance between us.
“I think we should just throw everything out,” I declare, kicking the empty box away from myself. It’s not as satisfying as I’d hoped it’d be. “Anything you need that I don’t have, we can just buy again.”
“Now you’re being alotdramatic.”
I like to think of it as smart, economic, and efficient. “I really think it has merit.” More than. He can wear my clothes, sleep in my bed, and never want for anything. If he needs it, I’ll buy it. And it means we don’t need to shove anything else into a box and hope it all fits.
“Let’s just keep packing, alright? We need to get this done before the cavalry arrive on Saturday.”
At least with the whole team, we’ll have everything moved in like… three trips, tops. Maybe even two if we can manage to snag the second truck that Jericho said he’d look into.
I flop onto the couch like a starfish, one leg over the side, and let out aslightlyexaggerated groan. “Can we take a break?”
“We’ve barely been going for an hour.”
That can’t be right. It’s been at least two. Even three. If someone says we’ve been doing this for ten hours, I’ll believe them. Staring upside down at him, I give him my best attempt at a pout. “Please?”
“Fine. Half hour. Then we should pack for another hour before I make dinner.”
I hate everything about that plan. Well, except for the break part, and the food part. I hate the rest of it. “Why can’t we eatnowand then pack after?”
“Because once I feed you, you won’t move from this couch.”
