Page 69 of Always Murder

But itdoesn’t.

That’s one of the reasons Sayers is so good—why she’s a genius, even though people don’t know her name the way they know Agatha Christie.(I mean, Christie’s a genius too.) Because you might hear the name Lord Peter Wimsey and think—with good cause—that the series is going to be, well, whimsical.And it is.The books are fun and funny and playful.And then they have this raw streak of reality that cuts right through them, and it’s heartbreaking and true and so incredibly human that it turns what could have been a lighthearted romp into so much more.

Plus, the book starts with somebody finding a dead body in his bathtub.Talk about a great choice for where to put the first murder in your story!

Of course, it’s hard to sink into a book, no matter how good it is, when every five seconds your brain leapfrogs away and you find yourself thinking about how stupidly you’ve acted recently.

The sound of the front door closing made me sit up in bed.Bobby’s familiar steps moved through the house, up the stairs, and toward my bedroom.Which was quickly on its way to becomingourbedroom.He hesitated outside the door, and then he knocked.

I gave an unexpectedly watery laugh.“Bobby, you don’t have to knock.”

The door opened.

He was still in uniform, of course.And his hair was still in its neat part.But he had the faintest hint of stubble (not that he could grow a beard, but still), and his face was drawn.His eyes were red.His color was bad.How many doubles had he worked in a row?When was the last time he’d eaten, or slept, or just gotten to veg out?

“Hi,” I said.

“I didn’t want—” He stopped and gestured at the door.“I wasn’t sure if you wanted—”

“Ialwayswant,” I said, which didn’t make any sense, but kind of did in the moment.

He was still standing in the doorway, so I got out of bed and went over to him and hugged him.He smelled like he did at the end of a hard day: sweat and leather and oil.His arms closed uncertainly around me.

“I’m feeling very vulnerable right now,” I whispered against his neck.

It felt like a long time before, voice thick, he said, “Me too.”

“Maybe you should give me your gun.”

The change came in his embrace, more than anything else.His arms tightened around me, and all of a sudden, it felt like every other time he’d held me.Like things were back to normal, and we were okay.Then he said, “Absolutely not.”

“Bobby, you have an unfair advantage.”

He saidmmm, but in a way that wasnotgratifying.“I’m so sorry for the way I talked to you.That was inexcusable, and I’m so—soangrywith myself for losing it like that.It was unacceptable—”

“Bobby—”

“—and I want you to know thatIknow that it was unacceptable—”

“Bobby!”When he stopped, I said, “It’s okay.”I wiggled back until I could see his face.“It’s okay.You can get mad.You’re allowed to have feelings.I mean, I never want you to be upset with me, but if I do something that makes you mad, you’resupposedto get mad.And come on, you didn’t even raise your voice.”

His jaw was tight.He cut his eyes away and shook his head.

“Yes,” I said.“You most definitely are.Especially when I am being so totally oblivious to what you want and need, and I’m making everything about myself, and I’m not taking your feelings into consideration.I know—” I almost said,That’s how it was with West, but I didn’t want to say that—didn’t want to bring his ghost into our relationship.So, I said, “I know that’s happened to you in the past.I never want to do that to you.You were right: I should have talked to you, asked you what you wanted, listened to what you were trying to tell me.I love you so much, Bobby.I don’t care about you being a detective; I want you to be happy and fulfilled, whatever that looks like for you.That’s what I should have said.”

He still wasn’t looking at me.His jaw was still stone.When he spoke, the words were clipped.“I should have told you.”

“Youdidtell me.”

He made an unhappy noise.

I bonked him—gently—with my head.“Hey.”

Slowly, his eyes came back to me—wary, defensive.Not like he was protecting himself from me, but—but from himself, maybe.Or from this moment.From the intensity of it.

“You should be proud of yourself,” I said.“I know how hard you’ve been working on communicating.I appreciate that so much.I love that you want that to be better for us.And I’m so glad you told me when I wasn’t respectful of your boundaries.”

He swallowed.His hand shifted on my back.With that same iron control locking down his voice, he said, “I lost my temper.”

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