Page 50 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

“I can’t face that bitch Cookie and her powdered sugar cult and bake lemon cupcakes worthy of a blue ribbon with this hanging over me, can I?” I glare at the burner phone like it stole my last fry.

This is what it’s for, right? This little plastic bastard. The one Carson gave me. The one you use for one thing, bad decisions that can’t be traced.

I pick it up and dial. My fingers already know the number. I’ve tracked him since our divorce. Walter shares way too much on LinkedIn, like a narcissistic peacock in a business-casual vest. Self-important, always selling himself. Needs clients. Can’t afford to hide.

The line clicks. “Lane Consulting, how can I help you?” That voice. That fucking voice.

I freeze. I am not the woman who lured and neutralized two dozen walking red flags with nothing but a pie and a smile. I am not the calm strategist, the master of curated death.

I am Mrs. Lane. The woman he built from scratch like a goddamn Frankenstein Barbie. His. Perfect. Property.

“There’s an issue I need your help with.” The words come out like barbed wire dipped in maple syrup.

“Ma’am, what is this in regard to?” he says, bland and businesslike.

He doesn’t even recognize my voice. The one he silenced. The one he choked.

“Do you do private consults, Mr. Lane?” It comes out smooth this time. Like I’m asking if he has time to die next Tuesday.

He does. Of course he does.

“I do.”

“I’d like to meet. Off the books. I’ll pay in cash.”

And oh, baby, does he bite. It’s always ego with men like Walter. Ego and the illusion of control.

I give him the location. Deep into a hiking trail that doesn’t see many hikers. Plenty of wildlife. Great soil conditions.

Then I hang up. And breathe.

And while I wait, I plan how to manage my accidental three-way entanglement of unexpectedly spectacular men: Blake with his earnest smile and unholy stamina, Carson with his smoldering glower and unethical file deletion, and Edgar, who brings me pastries and bone saws like I’m the lead in some kind of erotic gothic bake-off.

If I want to build a future where I can take care of Blake, meet Carson halfway across our shared moral abyss, and give Edgar the same loyalty he already offers me in saws and ashes, then Walter needs to be purged.

For good. With flair.

I change into “hiking gear,” which is a generous term for long pants that make my thighs angry and boots that scream seasonal lumberjack cosplay. I’m not aiming for rugged. I just don’t want ticks. Or to die winded.

The drive is nice. Calming, even. Just me, the open road, and the distant fantasy of blunt force trauma.

It’s a fair way outside city limits, which is ideal. Not much chance anyone will hear him scream. Unless, of course, it’s the one goddamn day a troop of junior eco-warriors decides to earn their badge in “Foraging and Rustic Toymaking.” I’m not trying to traumatize Timmy while he’s carving a gnome out of driftwood.

I park in the designated lot, because for today’s visit I’m a law-abiding hiker with a pink water bottle and murder in my heart. The path is narrow and mostly uphill, which sucks because let’s be honest, my legs were designed for wrapping around Blake’s shoulders, not hauling my emotionallyovercooked ass up inclines like I’m auditioning for Survivor: Trauma Edition.

By the time I reach the trail marker I’d suggested, I’m sweating like a sinner at Sunday brunch and seriously questioning my cardio choices. I plop onto a flat rock and inhale the snack cake from Carson’s latest care package like it’s communion.

I could get used to this kind of attention. Thoughtful, quiet, nutritionally-questionable affection. I lick chocolate off my thumb and wonder: what would Carson like in a gift bag? I know he liked the Zebra Cake, but what really screams “sexy, morally compromised lawman?” Beef jerky and a scented candle that smells like gasoline?

Something scuttles in the underbrush. I freeze.

It’s not a helpful animal sidekick. No woodland creatures appear wielding tiny murder tools and singing ominous but adorable harmonies. Disney lied to me. Again.

And then, of course, he emerges from between two trees like a cursed fairytale cop. Shadowed. Brooding. Backlit like he’s been personally styled by the concept of temptation.

“Jennifer,” Carson says, voice grave like he’s returned from a morally ambiguous pilgrimage.

“You following me?” I ask, already half-suspicious he’s been tracking me like a wolf with a badge and excellent biceps.

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