Page 177 of Unsuitable

I bury my face in his chest. His hand grips the back of my head, holding me to him.

Unwanted images flash through my mind. I shiver in his arms.

“You’re cold.” He releases me and takes off his shirt.

He holds it up for me to put on. I slip my arms into the sleeves. I don’t bother to button it up. I wrap it around me, keeping it in place with my arms, and I just breathe in his scent surrounding me.

He steps close to me and cradles my face in his hands, handling me like I’m precious goods.

He tilts my face up to his. “I love you,” he says.

I blink, surprised, my heart stilling in my chest.

“What I said last night—that it wasn’t in me to love anyone—I was wrong. So fucking wrong, babe.” He leans in and kisses my lips. “I love you like I didn’t know possible.”

I feel him move away a fraction.

I open my eyes. His are on mine, soulful and filled with so many other emotions that I almost can’t take it.

“I couldn’t save Haley that night,” he whispers. “But I can save you now. Let me take the blame for killing him. Let me do this one last thing for you, babe.”

I feel overwhelmed. My chest is so full with my feelings for him that I can barely breathe.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to. I need to, Daisy.”

I stare into his eyes, understanding what he’s saying to me.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay, Kas.”

Forty-One

Seven days.

Seven days since I shot and killed Damien Doyle in my living room.

Seven days since Kas told the police that he was the one who had killed Damien.

Him.

Not me.

And it’s been seven days since I last saw him.

After Kas convinced me to let him take the blame, I guess I was in some form of shock.

I mean, I had just killed a man. I guess it would have been weird if I hadn’t gone into shock.

Kas sat me on the sofa with Cece. Then, he went about setting his scene.

I sat there with Cece on the sofa, holding her in my arms, while she sobbed quietly. And I watched, almost abstractly, as Kas wiped down the gun, removing my prints from it. Then, he put it in Damien’s hands, putting his prints back on it. Then, Kas held the gun in his own hand, putting his fingerprint on the trigger, incriminating himself.

He came over and knelt in front of Cece, and he recounted the story to her, the one we were to tell the police.

After he was sure we both had it straight, he called the police.

And we sat there, Cece and me on the sofa, while Kas stood, leaning against the wall across from us, his eyes never swaying from me. And Damien’s body was on the floor between us.