Page 60 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“No cardigan today?”

“Oh.” I glance down at my half-zip fleece and joggers. “No, not today.”

“Huh.” She sounds almost disappointed. “And sunglasses too.”

“The light.” I adjust them out of habit, the way I would my normal camouflage. “Hurts my head.”

Shit, I shouldn’t be out here. Not because the bright afternoon light is sending a spike of pain right through my brain, but because of how much I’m not presenting as Dr. Mohr today. Hell, I couldn’t if I wanted to; my glasses broke in the scuffle on Thursday. The instant I can tolerate screens again, I’m ordering three identical replacements.

I see now this was not my best plan. I’m about to tell her I’ve overexerted myself by coming outside—not entirely untrue—when her gaze snags on my forehead.

“That looks awful.”

Her blunt observation pulls me up short, although she’s not wrong. The swelling above my left eyebrow is mostly gone, but the bruise is now a vivid reddish purple in the middle and a sickly greenish yellow at the edges. Also, I’m guessing I’m going to have a scar where the skin split, so fuck you very much, Ray Overton.

But that’s not what’s got me hunching my shoulders and shoving my hands into my pockets. Her clinical observation throws me off balance. I wasn’t expecting the soft looks and tender touches I remember from Friday, when she cradled my head and murmured soothing words that cut through the pain. But it’s disorienting not to see a hint of that warmth on her face now.

I know Rue was there. I know she sat with me and whispered things I never imagined hearing from her. I know she made tea and drank it with me; I independently verified with the used tea bags in the trash and the two mugs that were washed and returned to my cabinet in the slightly wrong position. I know she touched me deliberately, checking my head for a fever and my wrist for a pulse—just like I know she also touched me when she thought I was asleep, gifting me with absent strokes of my brow, my jaw, my back that I’m not sure even she intended.

I just don’t know why she’s looking at me now like none of that happened. I really did rest my head in her lap, and I really did wrap my arms around her waist. Hell, she invited me to do it. But that same woman is standing far out of arm’s reach, studying me with an almost academic curiosity that makes no sense to my still-healing head.

“I’m feeling better,” I say, even though she didn’t ask. “How’s your weekend been?”

“Oh, you know. Working hard, hardly working.” She presses her lips together, almost like she’s fighting a smile. Her right hand reaches up to play with the little gold pendant hanging around her neck. I squint at it behind my sunglasses, absolutely certain I’ve never seen her wear that necklace before. Or any jewelry at all, really.

Pulling my gaze away from the pendant, I peer hard at her face through the dark lenses protecting my eyes, suddenly needing to confirm it’s really Rue. Her blond hair is up in a bun, which isn’t her usual style, and I’ve never seen her in denim overalls or that long-sleeved red shirt. But she seems to be cleaning up her porch for winter, so maybe these are just her chore clothes.

“So.” She tilts her head. “What does Dr. Mohr do for fun?”

The question catches me off guard. “You’re asking me this now?” After only five hundred and ninety-three days, I think but don’t say.

She shrugs. “Why not?”

Okay, maybe this is how she processes a night of physical and emotional closeness. Retreating, keeping her distance, cataloging details, similar to what she does at her job.

“Um. Well.” Of course I’m frozen, because “committing murder” and “drafting psychological profiles for my next murder” aren’t really things I can share with her. “I like keeping up with my field, so I do a lot of reading.”

“Oh my god.” She snorts. “Academic journals don’t count.”

“Some of them are popular press,” I object.

“Boooooring.” Her entire body wilts dramatically as she turns the usual subtext of our conversations into actual text.

“Guilty,” I say with a Dr. Mohr grin that hopefully hides how very much I’m guilty of and how very much I hate that she still hasn’t seen through the facade I put on around her. I thought she had. It was starting to feel like she had.

Wait, no. I don’t want that. That’s what the facade is for.

“C’mon, you have to be doing more than reading psychology research on the other side of the wall. What else?” she demands.

Rue demands; I comply. “Not just psychology.” I let myself rest against the porch railing so I can focus on talking, not remaining upright. “I also read about scientific advancements. New medical techniques, current best practices in forensic science and surveillance technology, that kind of thing.” My voice trails off as I realize I’m sharing too many of my actual interests, most of which are bound to raise questions. In fact, her brows are lifting in surprise right now. “Also movies,” I hastily add.

She grins up at me. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What kind?”

“Let’s see…” I drop my gaze to my shoes, not sure of the last time I shared this level of personal information with another human. “Action movies, old martial arts films, that kind of thing. Also boxing and MMA. Anything where the fights look like ballet.”

When I risk a glance, I find her smiling at me for real for the first time today. “Say more things about that.”

I shift uneasily. “I guess… really good combat is a dance. Attack and retreat. Strike and spin. Block and parry. Frank Sinatra does it with music. John Woo does it with fists.”