Page 153 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

Quinn offers a flicker of a smile as she looks down at her red plaid Docs. “Thank you.”

“I can keep it together, but you’re still hurt.” Hugo’s eyes fall to the sickly green bruises on my neck. They’re less obviously individual fingers, but everybody at this table knows how I got them. Ditto the yellow-brown smear on my cheekbone and half-moon under my eye, both of which are taking their sweet damn time healing up. At least here I don’t have to bother with a turtleneck and a ton of concealer like I did when I went back to work on Wednesday after calling off sick—and heavily implying to Bart that I needed some personal time after my neighbor finally made his move. Which, to be fair, was also true.

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

He turns toward me with a frown. “You’re not⁠—”

A flying pistachio pings him in the eye, and he gives a yip of pain.

“Pell!” I whip my head to the end of the table. “Not cool!”

I pull Hugo’s hand away to inspect the damage. “Poor baby,” I murmur.

Fi stands to fetch a bag of peas from the freezer. “Food fights are all fun and games until somebody loses an eye,” she primly tells Pell.

She hands the bag to Hugo and hovers until he obediently presses it to the right side of his face. Even Cosmo gets in on the babying, hopping onto Hugo’s lap to cover his chin in sloppy doggy kisses.

From his lonely end of the table, Pell scrubs his knuckles over his jaw and says to no one in particular, “In my defense, he caught the first eighteen.”

Quinn sniffs. “This is why you don’t let a wild animal into your house.” Then she leans across the table to squint at Hugo, eventually declaring, “You’ll live.”

Felicity and I keep cooing over my boyfriend, who soaks in the excess of sympathy like a man who’s never had it before.

Once the fussing dies down, a hush falls over the warm kitchen. Fi nibbles on a thumbnail, Pell drums his fingers on the table, and Quinn crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him. I’m content to simply lean against Hugo’s chest and press my nose into his good-smelling neck while Cosmo’s paws quiver as he chases rabbits in his dreams from the safety of his dad’s lap.

“You know,” Pell says over the sound of the wind rattling the windows outside, “it’d be a lot safer if we just martyr the bastard.”

For a heartbeat, I’m tempted to agree. Maybe this time we can take the shortcut, kill the bad cop, hope his followers don’t take revenge on his ex-wife, and assume the legal system will get justice for her dead boyfriend. When Hugo’s clear blue eyes meet mine, I’m positive he’s tempted too. Then he smiles sadly and props his chin on my head.

“Baby, we have to,” he whispers.

“I know,” I whisper back.

From his end of the table, Pell sighs. “Then you’d best not miss.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

Rue

Ishriek and practically leap out of my skin when Hugo runs his hand down my back when he joins me in bed.

He grimaces. “Sorry.”

I drop my phone, where I’ve been staring at a topographic map of Lester Timms’s property. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve never been this keyed up the night before a kill. It’s just…”

I gesture helplessly at the map on my screen, then at Hugo, our bed, our dog, our life.

“I know.” He leans against the padded headboard with a sigh, and I press my hand against his cheek. He turns his head and lays a kiss in the center of my palm.

We switched my bed for his yesterday in a bid to distract ourselves in the run-up to our chosen K-day: Christmas Eve, three days after our summit at Felicity’s and the first day I’ll be responsible for picking up any after-hours calls to the ME’s office. It’s our best opportunity before charges are dismissed against Angie and Lester Timms becomes even more scrutinized and paranoid in the new year.

The plans came together fast, but unlike with Overton or even Greg, nothing’s rushed. We have Felicity on data and dissemination, Quinn on drugs and dosages, and Pell a phone call away if we need cleanup. More importantly, I have Hugo, and he has me.

His tongue tickles the notch between my first and second fingers. “What if we let the world sort itself out, and you and I just work straight nine-to-fives until we die of old age? Let the only thing I worry about be your awful chicken place.”

I yank my hand away. “What’s wrong with the Pluck and Fry?”

“Oh, Rue.” He shakes his head sadly. “Their most recent health inspection is a matter of public record.”