Page 178 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“S-see ya,” I call faintly. Then I collapse into a chair at the firepit.

Bart knows what a rue plant looks like. He just told me in Latin that Hugo grows it in our yard.

Bart thought Aaron McEwan was a monster, and he encouraged me not to bag up the cutting I found on that scene.

Bart explained away the points-up knives in Augustine Horne’s dishwasher and supported the finding of a self-inflicted death for Lester Timms.

Bart said he’d see me on Monday.

Bart and Hugo have a bowling date.

Bart knows.

It’s going to take more than a few minutes of staring into the fire to adjust to the idea that I haven’t been alone at those crime scenes or on this mission for a few years now. But by the time Hugo joins me at the fire—followed by Quinn, Pell, and Cosmo—I’ve decided it’s going to be okay. Bart’s always had my back, and from what I can tell, that’s not going to change. My family is safe.

When I hold out my hand, Hugo takes it. I’ll tell him later, when we’re alone, but I know he’ll agree. So will Felicity.

I wish she were here tonight.

As he so often does, Hugo picks up on my thoughts. “I was hoping Felicity would finish up early and join us.”

“Me too,” I say, then brighten. “We should pack up some leftovers for her! Maybe our resident insomniacs could drop it off tonig…”

I turn my grin on Pell and Quinn and find them exchanging a look.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Quinn says quickly while Pell pulls the baseball out of his pocket and spins it between his fingers.

“Not nothing.” I narrow my eyes at them. “You two never voluntarily look at each other.”

“I look at her all the time,” Pell says mildly, winding up a pitch he never throws.

“God, can you not,” Quinn snaps, widening her eyes at him as part of some kind of silent argument.

“What do you know?” I demand, leaping to my feet and pointing a finger at her, then him, then her again.

They share another fucking glance, and Hugo sits forward too. “Uh, guys?”

Pell’s the one who breaks first, pocketing the ball and slipping his fingers into the pocket of Quinn’s skirt in one smooth motion. She squeaks and tries to slap his hand away, but he’s too good a pickpocket.

“She said not to give it to her until midnight,” Quinn snaps as Pell hands me a sealed envelope.

“It’s midnight on the East Coast,” he says, and I’m distantly aware of a bite to his voice that isn’t usually there. Something worth noting under ordinary circumstances, but I can’t do that until I figure out what’s up with my sister.

I tear open the envelope and skim the note inside. Then I sink into my chair and read it again more slowly.

Hugo leans forward. “Is everythin⁠—”

I wordlessly hand it to him, then turn to the two snakes in my yard.

“You knew,” I say in a low voice. “You both knew my sister was traveling alone to New York to go after the rich, connected businessman she thinks is a serial killer. You knew about it and you let her go and you didn’t tell me?” My voice spirals to a shriek, and I spin to face Hugo, who’s staring pale-faced at his phone.

“Straight to voicemail,” he says.

“Good idea.” I fumble mine out of my pocket and call her six times in a row. On the seventh, I leave her a message. “Felicity, it’s Ruby Lynn. Come home right now so I can murder you.”

Then I hang up the phone and burst into tears. Hugo stands, gathers me to him, and sits back down with me in his lap.