Page 125 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“Look at him,” he grumbles, nodding his chin toward Dominguez, huddled with a few other officers. “Confirming what I already told him.”

I stand and use my pinkie to pull the edge of my glove back so I can give Bart’s shoulder a friendly pat with my wrist. “He’ll learn soon enough. You’re the source of all wisdom.”

“Damn straight,” he grumbles. “And aren’t you supposed to be meeting your movers in an hour?”

“What?” I glance in shock at the phone he holds in front of my face. Yep, I lost track of time, and what I thought would be an easy “pop home over lunch to let the movers in” errand is now going to be a massive pain in the ass after catching this extravagant kill. “I’ll… I’ll go call Hugo. He can let them in.”

This earns me another brow lift from my partner, but I ignore him as I pull off my gloves, snag my phone from my bag, and slip into the main-floor powder room, leaving the door partially cracked to cut down on the general crime-scene noise.

Now, how in the world am I supposed to make this ask?

In the end, I chicken out and send a text.

I’m stuck at work. Can you let the movers in at eleven?

God, that’s brusque.

I’m investigating what I’ll write up as an accidental dishwasher death in the home, so I can’t get there in time.

He still doesn’t answer, not even in reply to my “I’m covering for you” message. Yet for some reason, I’m still texting.

All of my things are packed and ready to be loaded. They don’t need me there for anything other than to unlock the door.

All the boxes are labeled with what goes where. They can text me with questions.

So yeah, if you wouldn’t mind telling them all of that, I’d be grateful.

Having self-immolated enough for one day, I slump against the wall and stare at my phone until the reply pops up.

Okay

That’s it. Just okay. And that’s, well, that’s okay. It’s how things should be between a departing tenant and her landlord.

Thank you.

He doesn’t respond, and as I stand in that powder room wondering if that’s the last exchange we’ll ever have, a snippet of conversation floats in.

“… definitely killed his wife.”

My ears perk up. Wife killers are high on my list.

“Shit, really? Is there a warrant?”

“Not yet. The story hasn’t hit the news, so Overton might think he got away with it.”

I listen harder now, piecing this cop gossip together with the strangulation death the nightshift picked up early this morning.

“Didn’t Ray skate on assaulting somebody recently?”

“Yeah, in October, at a women’s shelter. Some board member tried to get in the way of a marital spat.”

Women’s shelter.

“It was just a concussion.” The second man speaks again. “That pussy didn’t even press charges.”

Concussion.

“Too bad,” the first man says. “A guy like Overton should be off the streets.”