Page 31 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

“But you were here,” I say softly.

He nods, slowly. Regret and want curling in the corners of his mouth.

I reach for the basket. “Take the last slice,” I say, handing it to him. “Just in case you want a reason to come back.”

He takes it. Our fingers brush. Static. Sin. Possible felony.

He says nothing, but his eyes say everything.

When he drives off, I stay on the curb, heart thudding, lips parted, watching his taillights disappear into the dark.

Maybe I’ve got another very useful partner. A dream team brewing in the summer sun.

Edgar to burn the bodies.

Carson to scrub the trail.

And Blake, God help me, Blake to bend me over the crime scene tape and make me wonder if multiple orgasms count as a valid alibi.

Chapter Twelve

Carson

I shouldn’t be staking out Derik. He hasn’t done anything illegal. Not today.

Unless you count taking his lunch break at a strip club. Which, yeah, I kind of do. It’s not a crime to eat greasy tacos under a neon sign that says “Double D’s,” but it should be. Tacky as hell. Who combines titties and Tex-Mex?

Still. Not an arrestable offense. Yet.

His record’s exactly what I expected: minor charges, domestic disturbances, a restraining order from 2018 that somehow vanished. Same pattern I’ve seen before. Just enough rage simmering under the surface to be dangerous. Just enough charm to make women second-guess their gut.

Just Jennifer’s type.

And I hate that. I hate thinking about his sweaty hands anywhere near her. Her hips. Her throat. That mouth of hers that jokes about killing so casually. That smile that dares a man to underestimate her and digs his grave the second he does.

The thought of him touching her, that makes my hands twitch around the steering wheel. Not because I’m a jealous asshole. Because I know what kind of man he is.

I should arrest him. Trump something up. Drugs in the glove box. Outstanding warrants. Make sure he never makes it to the date I shouldn’t know is happening tonight. The one I only found out about because I pulled her phone records.

I tell myself it’s for safety.

It is. Mostly.

His place. She’s going there. That’s not just a red flag. That’s a warning siren. A bloodstained bat signal.

But she’s done this before. She’s methodical. Cold. Controlled.

It’s not about me. It’s about keeping her alive long enough to finish what she started.

Still. Just in case, I brought her a burner phone. Tucked it in a gift bag with snack cakes and a damn rose. Because I’m old-school. She deserves sweetness with her strategy. If she’s going to keep playing the part of predator, she deserves a man willing to kneel beside her in the dark and make sure her knives stay sharp.

And if I have to become complicit in order to protect her, then so be it. I’ll set my badge on fire and hand her the ashes like a love letter.

Sitting here isn’t helping her. So I head back to the office, but not before swinging by her place. She’s not home, so I slip the gift bag into her mailbox, tucked neatly beneath a stack of circulars and junk. The mail’s already come; it’ll be safe until she finds it. My version of a care package. Practical. Sentimental. Protective.

On the drive, I can’t stop thinking about where she is. Maybe with Edgar. That doesn’t bother me the way it should. There’s something about him, calculated, clinical. A piece on the board that doesn’t threaten her safety, just shifts its shape. No violent history with women, no restraining orders, no charges. A few people disappeared after crossing him, but honestly, if you manage to piss off a mortician, you probably earned your plot.

If it turns out there’s something happening between them, I’ll have a conversation. Man to man. See where he stands. See what he’s willing to do to protect her.

---