Page 62 of The Bones in the Yard

Maybe it was because I’d spent so much time around asshole cops, but even when I did something selfless, I did it because I had time to think about it and tell myself not to be a selfish dick. Taavi just—did it. Automatically.

It was probably one of the reasons I’d fallen for him. Because even when he was stuck as a fucking dog and being hunted by goddamn psychos, he had done what he could to take care of my sorry ass.

How could I not love him?

But even I knew it was too soon for shit like that. At least too soon to say out loud, anyway.

The last thing I wanted to do was freak Taavi out by being too pushy or coming on too strong. I wasn’t sure whattodo, though, so instead I fussed inwardly about the fact that the expression on Taavi’s face was one of worry and confusion.

So, instead, I ran my fingers around his face, over his ears, along his jaw. “You are not a victim,” I murmured. “You put yourself at risk so that some kid wouldn’t end up dead. That’s about as far from a victim as you can fucking get.”

His lips quirked, just a corner, a hint of a smile, then it was gone again. But it had been there.

“I mean it, Taavi.”

He sighed, then rested his cheek against my chest again, and I went back to stroking his hair. “Then why do I hurt so much?” he asked.

“Because you got between some kids and a fucking pickup truck.” I winced a little.Think before you spew shit out of your mouth, Val.

But Taavi laughed—softly, but he laughed.

The oven timer—which was baking home fries, roasting some slices of tomato, and toasting English muffins—went off, and Taavi stepped away from me so that I could deal with it.

“What are you making?” he asked.

“Eggs benny. Potatoes.” The skillet on the stove had the Canadian bacon done, and all that was left was poaching eggs in the already-boiling water. I turned off the oven and pulled out the food, setting up the plates. Then I quickly cracked a couple eggs into the boiling water.

Taavi watched as I waited for the whites to solidify, then fished out the eggs, doing his plate first. I cracked in two more, then spooned out the hollandaise while I waited.

Taavi stole a potato off the pan.

“Here.” I handed him his plate, which he took with one hand. “I’ll bring out silverware with mine.”

He nodded and disappeared from the tiny kitchen. More of a kitchenette, really, although I suppose I should be glad he had actual appliances—even if they were slightly smaller than full-size. I’ve seen some shithole apartments in my day, and not all of them even had a stove or an oven.

I made several trips to bring out my food, coffee, juice, and silverware, then settled cross-legged on the floor in front of Taavi’s futon.

Taavi paused in the middle of cutting through one of his eggs. “You can sit up here,” he said.

“I know,” I answered. “But I like sitting on the floor.” I wanted to be able to cut my food on the coffee table without having to lean way the fuck over. Besides, I did actually like sitting on the floor. Especially because, if I wanted to, I could scoot up against the leg Taavi had hanging off the futon.

He was sitting with one foot—the one from the leg he hadn’t broken—up under him, the other one on the floor, although I wasn’t sure if that’s how he’d always sat or if he used to tuck both of them until he’d broken it. Not that it mattered, really, but I wanted to know. I wanted to know what he’d started doing differently as a result of what he’d been through, and what was natural Taavi.

I also didn’t know if I really wanted to know. Because what if something he did was a habit forced on him by being kidnapped or tortured or being forced to live with some random-ass elf cop with a foul mouth and shitty hours?

So instead of asking, I told him about the rest of the museum case details. The days we spent digging, what Ward had relayed from the ghosts, all of it.

He knew some already, of course, although Kurtz hadn’t given him much in the way of extra details. I told him anyway, even though I wasn’t technically supposed to.

“You think the shells tell us when the victims were killed?” he asked.

We were still working on the theory that the reason for the dog bones was connected to the fact that the tenth day in the calendar cycle was symbolized by the dog and the god of death.

I shrugged. “Probably? It’s Aztec or whatever, right? Like your tattoo.”

Taavi leaned back, pulling aside his open shirt. “This isnotAztec,” he replied firmly. “Look at it.”

For the record, I was not capable of concentrating on the fuckingpatternof Taavi’s tattoo because I was far too distracted by the fact that I was looking at his bare skin. I forced myself to look at his face, and his expression was amused.

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