Page 48 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

It’s too blunt and her lips tighten, but I ignore her disappointment. Like always, she’s over it fast.

“If he goes down quick, maybe we can squeeze in an actual ladies’ night afterward.”

“Two a.m. margaritas?” I hook my pinkie around hers. “Deal.”

“Okay. Go be Mom with better chemicals.”

“Pell chemicals or brain chemicals?”

“Both.” She grins at me, wolfish and wild. “Go nail his ass.”

And then I’m out of the car and falling into a jog that takes me to Navarro’s house. It’s as easy to get in the second time as it was the first, and I trip the main at the basement fuse box and settle into the dark living room to watch for his return home. As I do, I think about Gomez.

Is he really going to show up next Thursday to scope out Timms’s house with me, and if so, how on earth am I going to keep myself in check? Because if I’m correct that Aaron McEwan was his kill, I’m officially a fangirl. But smart killers don’t use the homes of future victims as hookup spots like teenagers necking in the back of a car. Our only job is to learn everything there is to know about Timms, then decide who gets to kill him. Flipping a coin should work. Nobody needs to have unwise sex in the empty house of a vacationing cop who’s eighty-three point six percent likely, according to Felicity’s model, to have framed his ex-wife for a murder that he committed.

I’ve kept Pell’s spray bottle in my hand while I’ve been waiting, and I hold it up in the dim light to study it once more, excited to try it out tonight. I’ve also got my NCU breath spray and the dial-a-dose in my other pockets just in case, and thinking about that reminds me of Pell threatening Hugo, which makes me realize it’s way after midnight, and I haven’t checked for his check-in text yet.

I pull out my burner and prepare to send a quick “Life!” reply, but there’s no text from Hugo.

Weird.

Using the spoofing program that lets me text as if it’s from my number, I reach out to him first—a reversal from the usual order of events.

Life!

Hugo generally answers within ten seconds, but tonight my phone stays dark for a solid twenty minutes. This is… concerning.

Okay, now I really do need proof of life from you, neighbor.

I’m staring at the screen, waiting for his reply, when I hear Navarro’s vehicle prowl up the driveway. Biting back a curse, I shove my phone in my pocket and wait for the automatic garage door to rumble open and shut again so I can activate the signal jammer in my bag, blocking all Wi-Fi and phone service. Then we can get this show on the road.

But the door doesn’t open. Instead, there’s the chirp of a vehicle lock, the shuffle of steps, the clatter of keys as Navarro drops them on the porch.

“Fuck,” he moans. “Hold on, dude.”

Fuck, I scream internally. My plan was to spray him as he was coming in from the garage, but he’s headed to the front door, with me in the living room like a sitting duck—and he’s talking on the phone, which means I’ve got a potential witness listening in.

Frustrated, I shove the jammer into my front pocket, but before I can move to a better position, the front door bursts open and Navarro staggers inside.

“Fffffuck,” he moans again, blearily lifting his phone to his ear. “Anyway, yeah, man. Go back to her place and use up all her fuckin’ holes. Then get out before she gets crusty.”

Crusty? Marcus Navarro has to die.

I tiptoe around the perimeter of the living room, avoiding the man swaying in place on the tiled floor of the entryway, and peek out the front window from behind the curtain. His car’s parked sideways across the driveway, the front wheels resting on the lawn.

No need to panic. He’s here, and he’s already drunk. Question is, should I hit him with the spray I overpaid Pell for, just to be safe? I need him compliant enough to cough up the names of the cops, lawyers, and politicians he’s working with, then to take a little tumble down the stairs. Chemical incentive might not hurt.

My target walks unsteadily down his front hallway, still talking to whatever nightmare man’s on the other end of the line.

“Nah, I didn’t bring any pussy home with me.” His shoulder hits the wall, and he stagger-veers in the opposite direction. Sir Isaac Newton would be so pleased yet so horrified. “Got a big weekend planned. Conserving energy.”

He hiccups as he flips the light switch in the hallway, but it remains dark.

“What the—” His heavy, confused voice trails off as he jiggles it. “Shit, I gotta go. If you take video, post it, bro. Y’know we like to watch.”

The phone slips between his fingers and clatters to the floor as he stumbles into the kitchen, where he tries the light switch with the same result, producing another round of cursing. Now that he’s off the phone, I can finally power the jammer on to block all incoming and outgoing calls. That done, I reposition my grip on the spray bottle and follow the sound of Navarro ricocheting off his dining room furniture like a pinball. But his noisy progress is interrupted by shattering glass and a short, sharp scream that ends as abruptly as it started.

“What did you do, you cretin?” I mutter as I ease into the dining room and freeze two steps in.