Page 44 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

I take the hint and drop his hand. “I’m just saying, anytime you want to take that mask off, I’m always here.”

It’s the same thing he told me not so long ago, but before I can tack on an unwise joke about rechargeable batteries, he takes a step away, then another, his eyes never leaving mine. Then he turns on his heel and walks down the porch steps, down the sidewalk, down the block to his car, leaving me without a backward glance.

“Sure,” I say to no one. “Cling to that resting therapy face.”

I brush aside the tiny dart of hurt at his retreat. I don’t care what my neighbor does with his masks, especially when there’s a man in my life with a much better reason to be keeping secrets.

Gomez better get his masked ass to Officer Timms’s house in two weeks. Not only do we have a wife-framing bastard to kill, I’ve got seven million questions for him.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Hugo

Idon’t like to think of myself as someone who has emotional ups and downs based on how his day unfolds. I’m a reasonable man. A patient man. I don’t give in to petty little moods.

That said, I will kill the fuck out of Everett Jameson III if he doesn’t stop rambling about some just-concluded charity dinner.

It’s not my attendance at the quarterly meeting of the West Side Women’s Shelter community advisory board or even Jameson’s self-satisfied tone. No, I’m feeling murdery because the meeting was scheduled to end twelve minutes ago and could have ended twenty minutes ago if not for Jameson’s insistence on rehashing how much better our own fundraising efforts are than his ex-wife’s art guild’s.

And now I might miss Rue at her mailbox because nobody can stop talking about passed appetizers.

I grind my teeth as other board members jump into the conversation with their own complaints about recent social functions. Our newest board member slides me a sympathetic look, so my frustration must be evident. Rather than lose my cool entirely, I make a show of checking my phone, cringing as I mouth a Dr. Mohr-ish apology, and slipping out of the room.

I exchange waves with the handful of shelter employees and residents I pass, but nobody delays me as I head toward Terri, the night-shift employee who controls the shelter’s double-entrance system. She brightens from inside her fishbowl office as I approach the first set of doors.

“Good meeting?” She buzzes me through so I can step into the small vestibule, letting the inner door lock behind me.

“Very productive,” I tell her. “We’re recommending an upgrade of the exterior cameras. Clearer picture with audio.” And we’ll run it through the legitimate side of Pell’s business, which will keep the women in the shelter safe and keep Pell happy with me. Win-win.

“Oh, wonderful! Extra security is always welcome.” She beams. “Be safe on the way to your car, Dr. Mohr.”

I give her a little salute as she buzzes me through the outside doors, pleased at how well the shelter’s functioning. Shortly after I moved to the area, I took a chunk of my inheritance and made an anonymous donation to expand the West Side Women’s Shelter. It now provides mental health services, job training, and child care, along with two sets of locked doors between the women and their abusers. It plugged a hole in the city’s safety net, it’s given me a handful of worthy intakes, and really, what else was I going to do with that money?

My mood improves the instant I step into the chilly October air. The sun’s just starting to set, and traffic shouldn’t be too bad. I might even make it home in time to catch Rue before she leaves for ladies’ night. Things have been slightly off between us in the six days since I sprinted away from Aaron McEwan’s house with her invitation ricocheting through my brain.

Take off my mask. Come to her as myself.

I can’t do that, so I left. And it’s been nothing but brittle politeness at the mailboxes since then.

Still, I’ll take that over no Rue at all.

As I turn toward the brightly lit parking lot, I let myself picture a dangerously appealing scenario: I’m late getting home tonight, but what if Rue’s watching for my car to turn down the street for a change? What if today’s the day she⁠—

“Hey. Do you work in there?”

The aggressive voice scatters my thoughts, and I look up to see that a beefy white man has appeared in the parking lot, which is intentionally kept clear of trees and landscaping to avoid exactly this kind of surprise. Did this guy hide between cars, waiting to catch the first person who left?

I straighten my glasses and summon my most helpful Dr. Mohr smile.

“Oh, hi there! You startled me. Can I help you?”

“Yeah, you can help me,” he says belligerently. “You can let me in to see my goddamn wife.”

And this is why the shelter has the security precautions it does.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I say in my most vacantly pleasant tone. “I don’t have the ability to⁠—”

“Don’t fucking lie to me!”