Page 78 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“Rue, I…”

I swallow back the responses that roar to the surface.

I’d notice immediately. I already have contingencies in place. The geofence. My cameras and Pell’s. I’d hunt down whatever motherfucker tried to take you from me and make him die ugly.

She brushes her pinkie against mine on the granite island, sending my spiraling thoughts in a new direction.

She had to stretch to do that. She touched me on purpose. She’s still offering comfort when I’m upright and mostly myself again.

“If anything happens to me,” she says quietly, “I’m just glad to know you won’t be alone.”

“I wouldn’t be alone.”

“Right, because you’ve got Qui⁠—”

“I wouldn’t be alone because I’d find you.”

Her smile falters under the heat of my words. “What?”

“I would find you, Rue.” I turn to face her, burning with the need to wrap her in my arms to show her that she’s here, she’s mine, and I’d do anything to keep her safe.

Neither of us breathes as her eyes roam across my face. Then she exhales shakily and stands.

Goddammit. She’s leaving, and she’s doing it because I showed too much of myself just now. It’s exactly what I’ve been bracing for since the day I met her, and my gaze falls to the floor in anticipation of the blow.

Except I don’t hear her footsteps exit the kitchen and move down the hallway. I don’t hear the rattle and slam of the front door. Instead, I hear water in the sink and the clink of spoons on ceramic. When I drag my eyes up, she’s rinsing our dishes and carefully slotting them next to Quinn’s in the dishwasher.

I’ve seen this before on my cameras. When she’s feeling anxious about something—work, upcoming travel, tomorrow’s dentist appointment—she moves through her half of our house keeping her hands busy with dishes and laundry and list-making until her brain can settle. On those nights, she works in silence as she puts herself to rights.

Tonight, she talks. I don’t even have to ask her to do it. She just… tells me about her day. Who she bumped into getting coffee. What she had for lunch. Where she found a shell casing on her latest investigation. And she does it in those low, unguarded tones I’ve heard through the walls when she’s on the phone, dictating case notes, or muttering to herself. They’re even lovelier in person.

When the kitchen’s back the way she found it, I hold my breath, but she still doesn’t leave. She leans against the sink and sweeps her gaze around the room, taking in the framed botanical print I hung the week she moved in and the Breville Oracle espresso machine on the counter that would make her the best coffee of her life if she ever stays the night and is still here when I wake up.

Her eyes fall on the red box I set on the island.

“Should I make us a cup?”

I forget about my bruised forehead, about the headache threatening to return, about my Halloween murder date with Morticia. I smile at her and say, “I’d love that.”

She smiles back. “Then I guess I’m staying.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Rue

“Honey, I’m home,” I call softly as I let myself into Lester Timms’s shabby brick bungalow.

“About damn time,” a voice responds from inside the house. “Get in here, killer.”

How are my nipples already hard? Gomez could be reading the terms and conditions of that streaming service I forgot to cancel eighteen months ago, and I’d still be primed to respond.

Two murder dates, and I imprinted on that growl like a baby chick.

“Morticia,” he warns, “don’t make me ask twice.”

The command in his tone sends an anticipatory shiver through me, and I move into the house on the balls of my feet, cautious and quiet.

“Why are all the lights on?” I hiss-whisper when I reach the brightly lit living room and find Gomez sprawled in an armchair near the fireplace. Just a husband waiting for his wife to come home from work so they can figure out dinner.