“We have a warrant, Ms. Madden, to search your apartment and your vehicle.” I envision dirty hands across FtypeBaby and want to snarl.

“Searching for what?” I snatch the page from his hand.

“Please step aside, ma’am.” Oh, there she is. The pit bull in cheap Dockers. EyelinerCop. I watch her stroll around the man and step forward, into my space, close enough that I can pretty much guarantee you her lunch involved meatballs and onions.

I step aside. I step aside and watch them walk in. Wonder, as the man nods and passes me, how much evidence they’ll find.

How many loose ends I’ve missed.

CHAPTER 49

Present

IT’S HOT IN the house, summer officially here, the sunshine taunting Mike through the windows. Maybe he should open the doors. Let in the breeze. Move to the backyard and sit in the sun. Take off his shirt and actually get a tan. Thinking about it, he pulls his shirt over his head. Grabs at an abandoned bottle of water and finishes it off. Moves to the closet and tosses the shirt in the hamper. Grabs a fresh one, and vows not to sweat through this one. It was finally time for the AC. He flips the switch on the thermostat and prays that it works. Hears the slam of Jamie’s car door and wheels to the living room. Two p.m. The woman is nothing if not regular.

The front door latch switches and the door flies open, one Toms-encased foot the catalyst, a swift kick in its center causing it to slam into the wall. “You expecting a box?” Jamie’s pile of red curls pops through the front door, quickly replaced by her ass, the shimmy of her body working a large cardboard box through the front entryway.

“Not particularly.” This is interesting. Mike hadn’t gotten a package in ages, his last one a “care package” from Mom and Dad, an inappropriate gift for a man his age. But this isn’t a care package; that much is immediately obvious. It’s large, the cardboard heavy duty, a full roll of tape securing it. He moves closer, his head tilting to get a better look, his name printed in clear block font on the front, the return address blank.

“No return address,” she says ominously, her head jutting out alongside his. “Maybe it’s a bomb.”

He shoots her a sidelong look. “That’s optimistic.”

“I’m just saying. Let me run across the street before you open it.”

“Grab me a knife to open this with before you run for your life.”

She flounces off and he hefts the box onto his lap. Shaking it, he listens to a muffled shift of contents. It’s not the worst way to go. One bomb. Poof. An end to a lifetime of wanting a woman he’ll never have. How painful is love if you embrace death as an escape from it?

A minute later, a pair of red scissors are thrust before him. “Here. Your knives suck. I couldn’t find a sharp one.”

“Thanks.” He turns the box on his lap and opens the scissors, glancing up at her. “You gonna cross the street or die with me?”

She rolls her eyes. “Go ahead. But note this moment in time as the day I was brave.”

“The day you were nosy,” he corrects.

“Open the damn thing.”

It is pretty exciting, the thousand different possibilities of what this box can hold. The unknown sender, all of the tape, the narrow chance that he is risking his life just by opening it. Sliding the sharp edge of the scissors across the top of the box, he slices through the line of flaps. Undoes the sides, taking his time and prolonging the expectation. He’ll have plenty of time to be disappointed by the contents. Best to ride this high as long as he could. He sets aside the scissors and pulls back the first flap. Braces for an explosion but the air is quiet.

Behind him, Jamie lets out a noisy exhale. “Dodged that bullet.”

“Shh,” he hushes, and flips back the second flap. Slides his hands inside and lifts out a large box, the size of a tool chest, the black wooden lid ornate and carefully carved.

“What’s that?” she whispers loudly and he turns his head to glare at her.

“Sorry.” She holds up both of her hands, then makes the zipping motion across her mouth.

He refocuses on the box, running his hand carefully over the top. Pushes his fingertips into the carved design, over the gold hinges. Picks his fingernail over the lock on the front. Tests the hinge and finds it doesn’t move.

“It’s locked.” Captain Obvious behind him huffs, as if it is her present that is unopenable. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth and fights to not snap. Sets the wooden box on the table and reaches back into the box for the card, a yellow envelope that has slipped down into the packing peanuts. The front of the card is blank; he flips it over and works at the seal. Twists away from Jamie and opens it.

You never got this.

The message is written on a blank white card, the edges crisp and expensive, the oddest message he’s ever gotten, via card or any other method. He flips the card over, another message on the back, along with a small key taped to the card. I’ll want these back.

You never got this.

I’ll want these back.

Whoever sent the package needs to work on their tenses. He peels the key away from the card, his excitement growing. Grabs the box from the coffee table and fits the key into the lock. Holds his breath as it turns. Beside him, Jamie leans forward, her cinnamon breath fanning the air between them, the energy in the air high with expectation as he lifts the lid.

There is a long moment as they stare inside.

“Well,” she finally says. “Guess your knife problem is solved.”

He looks down, into the box, his eyes dragging along the neat row of knives, each in their own place, a strip of felt holding them down, the green suede doing nothing to undermine the sharp glint of silver. At least twenty, lined up like soldiers, each primed and ready for action. His mind flips to an image of Deanna, astride a stranger, the flash of a knife in her hand.

At least he knows who the package is from.

cops showed up today

The girl works fast. He closes the lid and wonders how many of the blades are stained with blood.

CHAPTER 50

Present

I THINK, AFTER debating the reasons for most of my life, that I understand why some individuals smoke. It’s the same reason that we instinctively reach for our cell phones during a lull in brain thought. It’s the need to do something with our hands, our mouths, our bodies, something to distract us from that which is life.

I have never smoked, yet right now, I want a cigarette. I lean against the wall and watch three bodies search my space. The room gets darker when the front door opens and Chelsea Fucking Evans waltzes in, wearing a black vest with Crime Scene Investigation on the back. I bite back an objection and wonder if she’s blabbed to EyelinerCop our tussle in the hall. I’m sure she has. Chelsea seems to like to talk. I feel her eyes on me and stare straight ahead, find EyelinerCop and track her movements. That woman I like. There’s no rhyme or reason why; she seems to hate me with every vein in her body, and maybe that’s why I like her. She doesn’t hide her feelings, lets her venom show, has practically lifted her middle finger in my direction with her body language and words. I respect that, want that. Should I meet her in a dark alley at night, it would be my pleasure to fight her to the death. Chelsea doesn’t deserve that, doesn’t deserve to stand in my apartment, doesn’t deserve to touch my stuff. Chelsea deserves to starve to death chained to a stake in the middle of the Ozarks.