Page 36 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“The bigger question is, what brings you here?” she asks.

That, at least, I can answer confidently.

“Mobile Crisis Response Team,” I say, my eyes falling to the credentials on the lanyard around her neck. She looks kissably serious in her official medicolegal death investigator photo. “The girl next door discovered the, uh, body.”

The confusion on Rue’s face clears.

“That’s right! It’s kind of funny that we’ve never bumped into each other like this before.”

She’s not wrong. If someone involved in a crime, accident, or natural disaster is in distress, one of us gets a call to assist. I’ve shown up at scenes to help witnesses, bystanders, victims, and one memorable time the burglar herself, but never once have I bumped into Rue.

I’ve also never responded to a crisis I created, so score two firsts for today.

Rue brushes her fingers over my elbow, “Do you have time to meet my partner?”

That light touch would get me to follow her anywhere. She could introduce me to Dr. Phil or the ghost of Sigmund Freud or the man she met getting coffee this morning and now plans to marry, and I’d smile and shake hands with all of them to make her happy. Of course, if she does ever introduce me to a fiancé, he’d better hope there’s not so much as a stray tibia to be found in his closet or he’ll end up fertilizing the roses outside of her house.

“Hugo Mohr,” she says when we reach the sidewalk in front of McEwan’s house, “meet Bart Washington.”

“Mr. Washington.” I shake the man’s slightly too-dry hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

He grunts. “It’s Bart.”

I smile my eager Dr. Mohr smile. “Bart, then.”

Bartholomew Washington. Sixty-one, thrice divorced, high cholesterol. Born and raised in Chicago, looks like he’s never owned an iron. Has been coasting toward retirement for the past decade and definitely since Rue came on board as his partner, taking on more than her share of their workload. Rue never complains about the division of labor they’ve settled on, so I’ve let it go—for now.

Bart tucks his hands into the sagging pockets of his equally saggy suit coat. “The neighbor, huh? She’s told me about you.”

I try to read his tone for what those reports might have entailed, but his whole affect is too bored for me to pick up anything. “Great. That’s, uh, great,” I say as I shift my weight, not having to fake my discomfort when I imagine how Rue might’ve described me to her closest coworker.

“Let’s get on with it.” Bart pushes past us to shuffle up McEwan’s sidewalk. Rue gestures for me to walk with her.

“You were really good with that little girl,” she says as I shorten my strides to match hers.

My face heats at receiving an honest-to-god compliment from her. “How much did you see?”

“Breathing. Hand-holding. Whispering.” She bumps my arm with her shoulder. “You were adorable.”

“Adorable?” Why does my voice sound so strangled?

“Adorable,” she says firmly.

That euphoria morphs into excitement-laced dread as we approach McEwan’s front door, where my dream girl’s about to dig up all the details on his “accidental” death.

Rue’s brilliant. Will she see through my careful staging? And if she does, how will she react?

There’s a woman. I can’t talk to her the way I talk to you.

My confession to Morticia in Navarro’s bedroom has stalked me since Thursday. Rue sees the man I am in the sunlight. Morticia sees who I am in the dark. But what if someone saw all of me—the things I do to bad men in their kitchens and bedrooms and garages, yes, but also the roses and the routines and the PhD—and stayed?

I shake my head and let the fantasy bleed away. I decided a long time ago I’m not equipped to love someone. It’s the safe call. It’s the only call.

But the sun is out, Rue’s smiling up at me, and I don’t want to walk away yet.

“I told Brooklyn’s mom to call me if she has any ongoing problems after today,” I say before I can talk myself out of it. “And it might help if I could see…”

I let my voice trail off, half hopeful and half terrified.