Page 37 of Over Her Dead Body

“Detail this time.” I tap the folder with one finger. “Not whatever you call this.”

“I understand.”

“I’m glad. I would hate for your next report to suffer from the same lack of feeling.”

The man by the door releases him.

He leaves bent around the pain, his ruined hand cradled against his chest.

When the door closes, I look at the folder again.

The world continues to turn. Problems remain small. People remain where they are useful. Everyone is permitted to believe this happens naturally.

If only it were that easy.

That’s not to say I consider people expendable. Dead people have to be replaced. Replacements require meetings. I hate meetings.

By the time my phone vibrates again, it is evening.

Calloway has landed.

I open tomorrow’s calendar.

Nine meetings.

I cancel every one.

CHAPTER 15

EMMA

Owen is waiting outside arrivals with one hand on the roof of his car and the expression of a man who has already decided to be annoying.

This is generous of him. The pickup, not the expression. The expression is standard.

“You look terrible,” he says.

“I missed you too.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t miss you.”

“That would imply emotional range.”

He smiles, and I remember, inconveniently, that Owen has a good smile. Not a nice smile. Nice is for men who describe themselves as nice. His is crooked and lazy, which is deeply unfair.

He takes my carry-on before I can stop him.

“I’ve got it.”

“I know.”

He puts it in the trunk anyway.

Owen helps in a way that makes refusing feel theatrical.

I hate that about him.

Among other things.