Page 80 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“This isn’t a good idea.” He pulls his hands away, dropping them to grip the arms of the chair.

“What, killing Timms?” I intentionally misunderstand him, trailing a gloved finger down his chest and shifting my hips back and forth. But as I do, I remember climbing onto Greg’s lap and torturing him in the same way. I squeeze my eyes shut and drop my head into Gomez’s chest.

“Obviously we’re both on board for that.” His voice strained, he shifts, trying to minimize the contact between our lower bodies. “Once we have definitive proof.”

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to go back in time and scrub off the dramatic eyeliner I applied earlier tonight. Then, I felt like a badass vigilante. Now I feel like an idiot. But I’m an idiot who’s not giving up.

“Proof isn’t necessary.” I scoot forward to get some of that contact back. “Look at this place.”

Timms’s living room has a mismatched sofa and chair. That’s it for furniture. The walls are another story. One features a large whiteboard with this week’s intensely detailed daily schedule in black marker, starting with 4:05 a.m. wakeup and meditation from 4:15 to 4:40 a.m. The other wall is an ode to dead Greek philosophers: three shelves of books with pristine spines and names like Plato on them and dusty plaster busts of stern-faced, bearded men. The only art is a framed photo of a gun on the American flag and a print of Socrates reaching for the hemlock. Beyond that, there’s no TV, no coffee table, no rugs or throw pillows. Nothing soft, nothing frivolous.

“Manosphere chic,” Gomez agrees, eyeing the crusty, unwashed protein shaker bottle on the floor next to a pile of resistance bands. “But it’s not evidence.”

“Okay. How about a deathbed statement from someone in a position to know? Timms is guilty as fuck.”

Gomez’s focus snaps to me. “Navarro told you?”

“Nope.” I pop the p, aiming for breezy and coming off bratty, which is fine. That’s how I’m starting to feel. “Somebody else.”

“Jesus, how many people have you killed since I saw you last?” His voice is a mix of horrified and impressed.

“Two. And no, I’m not telling you the other one.”

He’s so tense now I’m surprised his fingers aren’t poking holes through the chair’s upholstery.

“How about you?” I wriggle, and his eyes squeeze shut, like he’s struggling for control. “Did you indulge since we saw each other last?”

“Just one,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Slacker.”

“Totally lazy.” His voice is still tight. “I probably should’ve made it two.”

“But you didn’t?”

I watch him consider answering, then shake it off. “No.” He’s all business when he meets my eyes. “So how are we deciding which of us gets to kill Timms?”

I bounce on his lap. “Guess.”

“No. Not that.” His answer is short and decisive.

“So why don’t we agree that I’ll handle Timms when he’s back from vacation, and we can get out of here. M-maybe”—I take a deep breath—“maybe we could go back to my place.”

What am I doing? I can’t invite him to the house I all but share with Hugo, the man I’m trying to forget.

Not that it matters. Gomez laughs softly.

“You’re asking me back to your lair?” He shakes his head. “I know better than to go to a second location with a serial killer.”

“Ha,” I say. “Then let’s… let’s go get coffee.”

What the actual fuck am I doing?

“Morticia, you really are crazy. Coffee at this time of night?”

“Forget it.” I start to clamber off his lap, stiff with mortification. But his hands are on my waist again, holding me in place.

“Wait. Just wait.” His big shoulders lift in a sigh. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a confusing couple of weeks.”