Page 62 of The Taste of Deceit

“You are such a disaster. Anyway, can you do our sleepover this Friday?”

“Um, yeah. That should be fine.”

“Good,” she says. “Because I already told Michael to make himself scarce.”

“How’d he take that?”

“He didn’t like it.” She laughs. “I’m pretty sure he actually growled at me.”

I laugh because I can picture Michael staring down at her, and Katie not backing down.

We spend the rest of the conversation talking about Montana. I tell her about the ranch, Daddy teaching Luca to ride, the drive-in, and how much my parents loved him. It feels good to have one conversation where I don’t have to hide anything.

By the time we say goodbye, I hear the door from the garage open. Luca steps inside, shrugging off his suit jacket as he walks toward me. My eyes immediately catch the blood staining the sleeve of his dress shirt, the holsters beneath it, and the pistols resting beneath.

He’s only been back at work for one day, and he’s already come home with someone else’s blood on him.

I hate it.

“Hey,” I say, pushing myself off the couch.

He meets me halfway between the living room and the kitchen.

“Hi,” he says before leaning down to kiss me.

I glance at the shoulder holsters.

“Can you take those off for me?”

He doesn’t ask why. He unclips the leather harness, slides it from his shoulders, and sets it on the kitchen table. Only then do I reach for the top button of his dress shirt.

“Let me get this in the wash.”

He lets me, but I can feel him studying me the whole time. Once the shirt is off, he catches my chin between his fingers.

“You okay?”

“Mhm,” I answer.

“Sarah.”

I force myself to look at him.

“I’m fine.”

I take the shirt from him and head for the laundry room before he can read anything else on my face.

I grab the container of stain remover paste Mama taught me to make years ago and set the shirt across the washing machine. I work the paste into every spot of blood I can find. It’s not only on the sleeve. There are stains along the collar, across the front of his shirt, and near the bottom hem. It’s way more than I noticed when he first walked through the door.

For a second, I have to brace myself against the washing machine. My vision blurs, and before I can stop them, tears sting my eyes.

Fuck.

I straighten and lace my hands on top of my head, forcing myself to take a slow breath. Breathe, Sarah. It isn’t his blood. He’s not hurt. He’s okay.

“Sarah?” Luca calls.

“I’ll be right there.”