Page 132 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“Oh, thank god,” I call to the thirtysomething, muscle-bound white man under the assumption that he thinks he’s in charge. “Please tell me you’re here because of Lindsay.”

“Sir, you need to step back.” The fortysomething female officer steps forward, her fingers dropping to her utility belt as she eyes my height.

Shit. Right. I curl my shoulders into proper Dr. Mohr posture and turn wide, helpless eyes on her, as if my skeleton isn’t trying to vibrate out of my meat suit to race inside, make sure she’s okay, fucking find her. Because if she’s not okay, I don’t know how I’ll… anything.

If she’s not okay, I won’t. It’s as simple as that.

That’s why I follow them to the front door. I can’t wait around to find out. I have to know.

“So sorry, officers,” I say with my most polite smile. “But I’m concerned about⁠—”

“Sir!” Officer Azad, according to her name badge, holds up a hand to stop me. “Please step back and let us do our jobs.”

She and her partner are wearing light-blue uniform shirts under their department-issued jackets, which marks them as patrol cops, not sergeants or detectives or anyone who’d be showing up to the scene of a known murder. So that’s something.

Forcing an affable expression that’s undoubtedly brittle around the edges, I rap my knuckles against my forehead, like I’m a lovable loser with memory problems. “Oh, gosh, I didn’t even think. It’s just that I got a call tonight, and I’m worried about the safety of one of the homeowners. That’s why I came right over.”

I glance at the house, my eyes snagging on that bedroom that’s lit up like the Fourth of July. If she’s still inside, desperate to escape, I should keep stalling these cops, force them to deal with me at the front of the house so she can run out the back. But if she’s still inside, hurt and bleeding, every delay keeps her from getting help.

I curl my fingers into my palms at the thought.

“Is that so?” Azad asks.

“Yes.” I nod, all eager helpfulness. “From a blocked number.”

I’m lying my ass off, and she gives me a flat-mouthed once-over before signaling to her partner, Officer Roberts. He skirts around me to try the front door.

“Locked,” he calls.

“Knock and announce,” she tells him, while I consider grabbing her gun and forcing my way inside, un-fucking-announced. But I can’t. I have to stand here as Dr. Mohr, raising all kinds of questions about why I’m standing here as Dr. Mohr, simply because I can’t not be where she is.

Delay and she dies. Rush and she dies in prison.

I have to shove my hands in my pockets to hide how badly they’re shaking. She’s careful and clever. She’s too careful and clever to be taken down by a man like that.

Except she went in with faulty tech.

“Mr. Overton?” Roberts pounds on the door and shouts. “It’s the police. We got a 911 call from your residence tonight.”

“What did it say?” I ask Azad. “Is Lindsay okay?”

Lindsay’s dead, but they don’t know I know. That’s the only thing letting me stand here.

Azad ignores me and instructs her partner, “Check the back.”

After a long glance at me, he tromps off into the swirling snow. My shaking hands are joined by nausea and a loudly pounding heart as I tilt my head and stare through the window into the illuminated room, looking for any sign of Rue. When I look back down, the sharp-eyed officer is studying me.

“Mind telling me who you are?”

My eyes drop to her body cam, then back to her face.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, smiling sheepishly and reaching for my wallet, willing my hands to level out, my palms to stop sweating. “I’m Hugo Mohr. I’m a psychologist—well, a telehealth psychologist. Online therapy’s a calling, ya know?”

My hands only hesitate briefly before handing her my credentials. Because why not offer up my entire identity on the front stoop of the house where the woman I’m in love with probably killed someone?

The nausea rises again. So does the fight-or-flight adrenaline pumping through my veins. But I hide it with a lopsided grin, tapping the laminated badge I handed her along with my driver’s license. “I’m on the Mobile Crisis Response Team.”

Her brows lift. “Right. I remember you. You were helpful with that car crash survivor a few years ago. The multicar pileup on the interchange.”