My Killer Vacation

There’s nothing dangerous or irresponsible about smiling.

It’s safer than sleeping together. Right?

Last night on the beach, when I told her about some of the uglier parts of my past, she did a whole lot more than smile at me. I have to make sure we don’t get that far again—for her safety and the good of the case—but the longer I go with her angry at me, the more restless I become. Why can’t I just be indifferent to her like I am with everyone else?

I don’t have the answers. I just know I don’t like her walking away from me angry.

Disappointed.

That trust she gave me last night…I can’t help wanting another hit.

I have to give up ground in order to receive some, don’t I?

Shit.

“Listen, Taylor…” I take hold of her elbow and draw her to a stop, trying not to obsess over how smooth she is. Everywhere. Although, might as well admit it. I’ve lost the battle over obsessing about her body at this point, as evidenced by the fact that I’ve been carrying her red, lacy little hookup panties around in my back pocket since Thursday. “Time of death came in early. Oscar had been deceased for twenty-four hours when you found him. Your alibis checked out. So…”

Her face brightens and my heartburn evaporates. “We’re not suspects anymore?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She breathes a laugh. “You hated telling me that, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Wow. That response was way too quick to be believable. I plant my hands on my hips, but drop my hands almost immediately. “No. I didn’t hate it.”

She’s squinting up at me into the sun. No shades.

Without thinking, I take mine off and put them on her.

They’re so big on her, they slide right down to the tip of her nose and she goes momentarily cross-eyed watching them slip. Why does it feel like there is someone doing gymnastics in my chest? “Well.” I jerk my head at the cove. “Go look at some fucking fish.”

She bursts out laughing and the glasses fall off completely.

I catch them before they hit the sand.

“What’s so funny?”

“Well.” She struts off toward the rock formation and here I am again, keeping pace with her. “I was thinking if you were one of my students, I’d ask you to draw me a picture of your feelings. And they would probably look like the cover of a death metal album.”

The word “feelings” in itself makes me jumpy, so I push the conversation in another direction. Because at least she’s talking to me now. Not quite smiling yet, but there’s time.

No there isn’t. You’re supposed to be investigating a murder.

“What are you like?” I ask, more curious than I have the right to be. “As a teacher.”

“Well…” We enter an opening in the rock formation, stopping in front of a shallow tide pool. Overhead, there is a rocky overhang that blocks the sun and she peers up at me in the absence of light, as if deciding if she can talk to me. Trust me. I make a mental note about the timeline of our acquaintance. I was mean, also known as my usual self, until last night and once I let up, she softened. Trusted me. Mean again this morning, lost that trust. Maybe I should just stop being mean. That seems like the only route here if I want her to…

What?

Like me?

What good is liking me going to do her? Or me, for that matter?

“I’m a crier,” she says finally and my worries take a backseat. For now. “I cry all the time. I’m famous for being found weeping in the staff supply closet.”

I don’t like that at all. “Why?”

“The kids. They say the most honest, beautiful things. They’re too young to be guarded and it’s especially noticeable with the boys. You know? Men sort of learn early to keep their feelings to themselves, but my second graders haven’t been taught that yet.” When I notice the moisture in her eyes, so much pressure squashes down on my chest that I physically take a step back, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “On the last day of school, one of them said, ‘Thank you for being my school mommy, Ms. Bassey’ and I almost required oxygen.”

“Are you going to require it now?”

“No.” She swipes at her eyes as if crying out in the open is the most natural thing in the world. “Why? This is nothing. Level one tears, at best.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Do they make you uncomfortable?” She toes off her sandals and wades into the water, her curious attention drifting over to me. “You don’t have to answer that. You look like you’re being suffocated by a giant squid. My parents didn’t love the crying, either.”

With a grunt, I strip off my shirt and toss it down onto the shore. After flipping on the safety of my gun and leaving it close, I quickly follow her into the water. There are a lot of slippery rocks out there. I should probably stay near her, just in case she stumbles across one of them. “Your parents were hard-asses like mine?”