Page 59 of Axe-ing for Trouble
Mila
“What are you doing?”
“Research,” I said, a pencil between my teeth as I opened another browser window.
“That’s the wall?”
The wall in question had been covered with very nicely framed vinyl covers, but I’d taken them down and gently stacked them in the closet.
In their place were a few dozen Post-it notes.
I didn’t glance up. The post-kiss awkwardness was killing me. So I did what I did best. I avoided and evaded.
Jude had given me free rein of his laptop, and we’d dug in.
I’d uploaded all the recordings from the phone to the cloud and was going through them one at a time, creating notes and transcripts, connecting the dots as best as I could.
In this state, it was imperative that I keep busy.
Finding that phone had been a sign from the universe. It was time to get serious.
“I’ve got your deliveries.” He disappeared, and when he returned, he was carrying a stack of Amazon boxes.
“Ooh. Yay,” I said, focused on the screen again. “Can you set up the printer for me?”
“Printer?”
“Yup. And the cork boards should go on that wall.” I thumbed over my shoulder.
“Shouldn’t you be resting? Not”—he waved, gesturing to the chaotic state of the room—“whatever this is.”
Halting my search, I lifted my head and narrowed my gaze on him. “We’re building a command center. We need a place to ideate.”
“Ideate?”
“Yes. Work through it all. You said I could order stuff and ship it to your office.”
“I was thinking clothes and things like that…” He trailed off.
“I don’t care about clothes.” I huffed. So maybe I was still in my feels about our kiss. “I care about justice.”
He gave me a tight smile. “Okay, let me get the rest.”
As he stalked out, I tore into the first box. Pushpins, red string, printer paper, ink. Great.
“What’s with the string?” he asked as he set the massive printer box down.
I cocked a brow. “You can’t make a proper evidence board without red string.”
He lowered to his knees and opened the printer box. “So you’re making a murder wall. Like crazy people on TV shows.”
“I object to the use of the term crazy. Being organized is not a sign of illness, Jude. You, of all people, should know that.” I gestured to the wall of bookcases with meticulously displayed books, graphic novels, and vinyl records.
“Touche,” he muttered.
We unpacked, and while he broke down the boxes and hauled them to the garage, I set up our new equipment. I could feel a buzzing sensation under my skin. Purpose. Exactly what I needed.
While Jude broke down the cardboard for recycling, I gazed out the window at the firepit and expansive yard that led down to the edge of the dense forest. If this was my house, I’d probably plant a flower garden and add some of those flat pavers to make a pretty path.
