Page 173 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“Hey, kid. We caught a case.”

Bart’s voice travels through her phone and into my ears, although it’s not loud enough to disturb the quiet of the living room. Felicity’s curled up on the opposite end of the couch, fast asleep. Quinn made a makeshift bed by shoving the ottoman against the armchair and piling pillows on either side of her. Even Pell eventually moved to the floor and drifted off, his back propped against Quinn’s chair and Cosmo at his side.

The little dog cracks an eye when Rue sits up, then decides none of this is his business and goes back to snoring.

“Send me the address,” she says groggily. “I’ll get my kit.”

When he ends the call, she drops the phone to her chest and mumbles, “Don’t wanna.”

“Don’t want you to.” I reach for her, needing a few more minutes, but she gives me a light kiss and stands. Then my brain wakes up. “Already?”

Her screen lights up with Timms’s address, and her sleepy fog vanishes. “Yeah. I have to get dressed.”

I catch her hand, wishing like hell I could go with her, protect her from everything that could go wrong. But she slips away, coming downstairs a few minutes later in jeans and one of my button-downs, rolled at the cuffs and tied at the waist, and now I don’t want to let her go at all. But I will.

“Brave girl,” I murmur. “Go do what you do.”

Felicity stirs to life and realizes what’s happening before she’s even reached for her glasses.

“Ruby Lynn,” she says as her sister pulls on a puffer jacket. “Don’t forget: you’re Mom⁠—”

“But with health benefits.” Rue gives a comical grimace. “Believe me, I know.”

Felicity shakes her head.

“No. You’re Mom with a team at your back.”

Rue’s hands freeze on her zipper, and Felicity offers her a sunny smile. “I just didn’t want you to forget.”

Rue presses her lips together, her eyes sweeping over the room. Then she blows us a kiss, picks up her murder kit, and vanishes down the hall, walking toward the body we made. Toward the thing that could take her away from me.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Rue

Hugo and our dog are the only ones left in the duplex when I finally make it home. One’s asleep. One’s vibrating with anxiety.

“Not to jinx it, but it went about as well as it possibly could,” I say in place of a greeting, flopping onto the couch next to him.

“Good.” Hugo’s shoulders relax, and he runs a tired hand over his face, saying again, “Good.”

“Nobody raised a single red flag,” I say, leaning back against the cushion and closing my eyes. “Bart had no problem signing off on suicide.” And the only person who noticed the trace of Femme Fatale on Timms’s shirt was the one who’d been wearing it.

I peel my eyes open and grin at Hugo despite my exhaustion.

“Pretty sure everyone wants to wrap this up with as little paperwork as possible so we can all put Lester Timms behind us.”

We grin at each other. We fucking did it.

“Okay,” I say when a yawn attacks me. “I’m changing, and then I’m sitting back down on this couch and never moving again.”

Hugo helps boost me up and moves Cosmo into his lap. “We’ll be here.”

I come back downstairs a few minutes later dressed like a woman who’s extremely confident in her romantic relationship: no bra, Hugo’s button-down shirt, my Valentine heart leggings, fuzzy socks, and a Dr. Mohr cardigan. He raises his eyebrows at that last item.

“What?” I pull the ends around me. “I was cold.”

He’s stretched longways on the couch, and I nestle into him, my back against his front, his arms around me. “It looks better on you,” he says into my hair.