Page 73 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

She doesn’t.

“I guess if you’re staying on the cot, I’ll just cozy up in your bed and masturbate at top volume to confirm for myself just how well noise carries from your side of the duplex. Want me to shout your stealthy-hot neighbor’s name when I come? We both know he’ll be listening in.”

“You wouldn’t.” I gasp-laugh in horror. “And he wouldn’t either!”

“You sure about that? When I used your shower earlier today, I wondered if your neighbor might appreciate some loud singing so he could picture you sensually working shampoo through your hair, totes naked.”

Something low in my belly clenches at the thought of Hugo listening to me and liking what he hears.

God, I’m turning just as weird as he is.

“He’s harmless,” I say firmly, shutting down all images of walls and Hugo and his big hand gripping his big cock while I⁠—

Shit.

“He’s just your average, everyday psychologist virgin with a PhD. Nothing to see here.” Maybe if I say it out loud, I’ll believe it myself. “Now please go to bed. Quietly.”

“Fine,” she says with a much-aggrieved sigh. Then her voice turns serious. “How do you feel, love?”

I force myself to look at my ex’s bloody, pale, very dead face as I consider the question.

“Good. Really good, actually.” I crane my neck to the left, then the right. “It’s like carving out a malignant cancer. Usually I’m doing it for, like, the greater good. But this cancer was growing inside of me.”

Felicity’s quiet for a beat before she says, “I’m glad. Because fuck him.”

“Fuck him,” I agree. Once we end the call, I get started on cleanup, knowing I’ll sleep like a baby tonight. And tomorrow, I’ll cauterize my relationship with Hugo so I can put my focus on Lester Timms, where it needs to stay.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Hugo

The doorbell chime on Tuesday afternoon has me bolting off the couch more quickly than I probably should, but I don’t care. It could be a delivery driver. It could be Mormon missionaries. It could be someone here to repossess my car. I’m so fucking bored after days of no screens, no reading, and no appointments that I’ll carry on a conversation with a fire hydrant.

No work and no play make Hugo an even duller boy.

I’m already in my khakis and cardigan, desperate to feel something approaching normal, so all I need to do is grab my new replacement glasses to complete my costume. But they’re not necessary; my front door cam shows Quinn on my porch in a floor-length granny square afghan coat, holding a mason jar.

“This is a surprise,” I say as I open the door and toss my glasses back onto the entry table.

Understatement. I can count on one hand the number of times my oldest friend in the world has shown up at my house without a set schedule involving a major holiday.

“Just making sure Pell’s doctor didn’t kill you.” Even in her oxblood high-top Doc Martens, she has to crane her neck to study my face. “Pupils look good. Bruising looks like shit. That’s stew.”

It’s maybe the warmest greeting I’ve ever gotten from her, although it takes me a beat to realize that last bit is referring to whatever’s in the jar she’s just handed me and not my injury.

“Nice to see you too.” I step back. “Come on in.”

She follows me inside, her boots clomping over my hardwood, and takes over once we’re in the kitchen, pointing me toward the stools at my kitchen island. Quinn’s the most outdoor-cat person I’ve ever met, needing space and independence, demanding everyone approach her on her own terms, and scratching the shit out of anybody who tries to break those rules.

Maybe it’s the head wound, but the fact that she’s here at all is making me emotional.

She slings her colorful coat aside and gets to work locating what she needs.

After she’s poured the contents of her jar into a pot on the stove and given it a stir to get things heating, she turns back to me, sets her hands on her sturdy hips, and looks me up and down.

“Any headache today?”

“Not too bad,” I reply. “And I don’t need the nausea meds anymore.”