Page 29 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“Besides, you handling this”—he gestures around the dark bedroom—“frees me up to finish an intake I’ve had in the works for a while now.”

“Intake?” I cock my head.

“Ah. Just another lowlife who deserves it,” he says with a casual shrug. “If I do it right, it won’t even make the news.”

That’s not his first reference to hiding his kills behind accidents, and I wonder if I’ve ever processed any of Gomez’s other “intakes” without knowing it.

Intake. Hugo. Shit. He’s probably waiting for my ladies’ night check-in text. But Gomez is here, so Hugo will have to wait.

“Why Navarro, and why now?” That detail’s been niggling at the back of my mind since I scaled the wardrobe. “You’re not stalking me, are you?”

“If I was, you’d never know it.”

His voice is so matter-of-fact that I resist the urge to check my pockets for a tracking device, which is ridiculous. I know my security system. I know my locks. If someone was following me, I’d know it.

“To answer your question,” he says, returning to his playfully cocky growl, “I’ve got a… a friend in law enforcement, and Navarro recently had a run-in with the police.”

True. Stiletto Guy was in the news this week because a county prosecutor—my ex-boyfriend Greg, in fact—filed every possible charge against the woman who attacked him on their date. Navarro wasn’t mentioned by name, but if Gomez has cop friends, he could’ve gotten the name from one of them.

“A friend?” I ask, curious if we run in the same circles.

The warmth disappears from his eyes, and his only answer is a curt, “Yes.”

Apparently we’re not discussing his friends. Ooookay.

Gomez busies himself pulling out a burner phone that looks a lot like mine, frowning when he doesn’t find a signal.

“Do you have service?” he asks.

I move to my backpack and pull out my trusty RF jammer, waving it at him.

“Nobody does.” My brows lift under my mask. “Are you saying you break into houses without disabling the Wi-Fi and phone service?”

His head dips in a nod, and I give a low whistle.

“No fear of cameras or smart speakers or 911 calls, huh?”

It’s a shake of his head this time. “Nah. My intakes are never alive long enough to call 911.”

God, that’s hot.

Gomez winks, and oh hell, I said that out loud.

“Hey,” he says suddenly. “Can I propose our next target?”

“Our?” Why am I swooning?

“Yes,” he says. “Our. How much do you know about Angie Timms?”

“She didn’t do it.”

“Obviously,” he says. “Yet the State filed murder charges against her.”

“Never mind the lack of evidence or her alibi,” I grumble.

Angie Timms. Thirty-two. Golf pro. Survived an ugly divorce from city cop Lester Timms last year. The split made the news, fueled by nasty allegations of stalking and abuse on his part and infidelity on hers. When Angie’s new boyfriend was found dead this summer, the investigation immediately focused on her in a way that suggested someone on the inside was working really hard to make her look guilty.

Someone like her cop ex.