Page 177 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“All of me,” he whispers back. “And all of you.”

EPILOGUE

SEVERAL MONTHS LATER

Rue

The first annual Bellamy-Mohr backyard barbecue is going off without a hitch—lively conversation, unseasonably gorgeous weather, food and drink aplenty—save for our resident thundercloud.

“Bet you wish you could trade places with Felicity,” I say when I find Quinn on the back porch steps, wearing a black batik skirt and a glare.

“Stuck at home working on a massive dataset with a terrifying expedited deadline?” She accepts the fresh beer I hold out to her. “And here I thought I’d been so subtle.”

I snort. “If you call crouching behind a rosebush every time Hugo tries to introduce you to someone new subtle, then… nailed it!”

I hold out my own bottle, and after the tiniest hesitation, she clinks hers against it. Once Hugo convinced me to stop sheltering my twin from the hypothetical blowback of my crimes, Fi became the center of our social circle. Even Quinn occasionally smiles in her presence.

“At least our boy seems to be having a good time.” She tilts her bottle toward Hugo.

Sure enough, that’s my man at the grill joking with the other members of the Petal Pushers, our neighborhood’s gardening club. As it’s primarily composed of snowy-haired retirees, he stands out like a tall, handsome flamingo among the laughing, chattering flock. He still wears his slutty little Dr. Mohr glasses and adjusts them constantly, but he’s officially traded frumpy business casual for T-shirts and jeans, and he keeps his hair silky, gel-free, and touchable.

The cardigan remains available for telehealth sessions and sex.

“Apparently all we had to do was give him an apron and tell him to sear meat for other plant aficionados,” I say.

She snorts as I continue my sweep of the yard, which doubled in size when we tore down the fence separating our halves this spring. Cosmo runs back and forth like he never had to wriggle through a crack to visit me, and by next year, the depressions where we removed the posts will be covered in the roses and rue we’ve planted.

“I’m surprised Pell didn’t show up,” I say.

“Maybe he’s dead.” Quinn primly adjusts her skirt over the top of her turquoise Docs.

As if he heard us—because let’s be honest, he probably did—the backyard gate swings open ten minutes later, and the man himself ambles in, a four-pack of Cheerwine under one arm and an unlabeled jar of what appears to be pickled eggs under the other. He looks like somebody’s eternally between-jobs cousin in a faded gray T-shirt, work pants, and a sun-bleached ball cap.

“Ladies,” he says as he breezes past.

“Honestly!” Quinn shoots to her feet with a huff. “Who brings a jar of eggs to a barbecue?” After she swishes into the house, I finish my beer and join Hugo at the grill.

“Yep, we made it a big home office,” he tells one of the Petal Pushers, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and gesturing at my former half of the duplex with his tongs. “The extra space is a real lifesaver.”

We share a private smile at that. Hugo’s bespoke bone meal needs replenishing, and the cop who stuck a parking receipt in an embezzlement file as a favor to a friend is waiting for us in the basement freezer.

Angie Timms, meanwhile, walked out of the Cook County Department of Corrections in February and is living with her sister in Scottsdale, according to a WGN feature I’ve watched a ridiculous number of times. She’ll never know about us or our rosebushes, but I bet she’d appreciate how nice they’re going to look.

The nonmurderer guests start to make their goodbyes as the sun sets. Bart’s the last to leave.

“Thanks for coming.” I give him a quick hug, then wince. “I know we’re not huggers, but that’s what you get for hanging out in my yard.”

His lined face pulls into a smile, and as we walk toward his car, he stops to admire Hugo’s landscaping.

“Your boyfriend’s got a real green thumb.” He nods at the roses, but it’s the blue-green bushes with the delicate yellow flowers that have him stopping for a closer look. “I’d ask you to dig me up a start, but rue doesn’t like being moved once its roots are established.”

The air leaves my lungs in a rush.

“Ruta graveolens.” He pats his pockets before finding his pack and shaking a cigarette out. “Also known as the herb of repentance.” He goes fishing for his lighter next. “I figure there’s lots of people out there who have some repenting to do. And sometimes they need a little help doing it.”

“You…” My brain’s as empty as my lungs. “Bart, I…”

“I told you, kid. You need to study up on your botany. And tell your fella we’re on for bowling next Saturday.” He holds my gaze for a long moment before he nods and tucks the cigarette between his lips. “See you Monday, kid.”