Page 103 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

I focus on slathering chocolate hazelnut goodness on my toast and fighting back tears.

“I’ll start looking today. And I need to get out of my lease.”

She snorts. “I dare him to try to hold you to it.”

“He won’t.” Will he? Yesterday, I’d have said he’d let me out of it as a kindness if I asked. Now, I’m not sure.

An alert chimes on Fi’s phone, and she quickly silences it. “I should be leaving for yoga,” she says.

“Yoga? You?” I ask around my mouthful of toast. “How long has that been going on?”

She focuses on doctoring her toast as intently as I just did when my living situation came up. “I don’t know. A while. I found a studio that’s worth the drive to town.”

“At noon on a Friday?”

Fi shrugs. “It fits my schedule.”

“O… kay.” Yoga’s a surprising choice for my let’s-run-the-data, let’s-get-shit-done sister, but maybe an activity that calms her brain is good for her. “I’m glad. Makes me feel less guilty that you’re stuck here helping me when you should be, I don’t know, the queen of Silicon Valley.”

She rolls her eyes. “I beg you to stop taking responsibility for my choices. I love what I do. And I’d be a terrible queen.”

“Easier said than done. And you’d be an amazing queen.”

“Actually…” She grins and pantomimes settling a crown onto her head, where her hair’s haphazardly gathered in a topknot, as per usual. “I would, wouldn’t I?”

“And how’s the Rowdy’s kidnapping case going, your majesty?”

I ask this to distract myself from the shit show waiting for me outside these walls, but Fi shocks me with an actual update.

“I found my guy.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.” She adjusts her pretend crown. “There was another disappearance last week. A sixty-year-old man, last seen leaving a Rowdy’s in Louisville.”

“Connected to your serial abductor?”

“Serial killer,” she corrects me, dancing in her chair with excitement. “No way is he keeping these people alive. Although lord knows he could.”

“You tease! Who is it?”

She drags it out a little longer, popping the last bite of Nutella toast into her mouth, blotting her lips with her napkin, and setting it on her plate before primly folding her hands.

“Cormac Archibald King,” she announces.

I blink. Blink again. “Billionaire playboy Cormac Archibald King kidnapped someone from outside a Rowdy’s in Kentucky last week?”

“Kidnapped and killed. My model is seventy-nine point nine percent confident.”

I shake my head to clear it. “Manhattan’s golden boy. The social media darling. The guy who once spent forty grand on a bottle of wine and used it to make sangria. That’s the guy you’ve been tracking?”

“Yes.”

“Honey.” I reach for her hands. “I think what you’re describing is a psychotic break.”

“No,” she says. “I’m positive Cormac King is perfectly sane and acting of his own free will.”

I keep my gaze steady until she screws up her face and slaps my hands away.