Drop Dead Gorgeous

“Sure. Will do.” I’m more than happy to stay on top of Zoey, and behind her, and beneath her, and any other position she’d like to try.

As for Sheriff Barnes, I will follow up to make sure he investigates further because I think Frederick is right. Yvette Horne methodically poisoned her husband for the money, and I don’t think she’s going to take a judge’s ruling as the final say on funds she feels entitled to.

Mason opens the back door for Frederick, making sure he’s in the car and buckled up before he shuts the door. “Drive safe,” I tell him, and he laughs.

“Always do.”

Finally free, I message for a ride and then text Zoey again.

Hey! I’m coming back out to see you. Should I meet you at work or home?

I don’t wait for a response, figuring I can check it when I get closer to her. Not while driving, of course, because texting while driving leads to 1.6 million car crashes each year and I would never be that irresponsible, but while pulled over safely.

The Uber driver drops me off to my office, and I don’t even go inside. I move from the Uber straight to my own car, hurrying as quickly as I can to get back to Zoey.

I buckle up, check my mirrors and surroundings the way I always do, and make the drive to Williamson County for the second time in a row today. I head to the morgue first, seeing as it’s late afternoon and Zoey’s a bit of a workaholic.

She’s probably elbows deep in the belly of a fresh body, with their guts being weighed on scales as she talks to the nonresponsive person about their family.

Or the weather.

Or last week’s Survivor episode.

The idea that once would’ve made my stomach churn and turn, and threaten to give back my steak, doesn’t so much as make me blink now. It’s simply what she does and who she is. A brilliant mind, passionate about her work and about giving her DBs the respect they deserve.

Once safely parked, I check my phone. Zoey hasn’t responded—not to my latest text and not to the one from this morning either.

Shit, I hope she’s okay. This morning was rough, but it turned out okay. Yvette didn’t get the money. That’s what matters.

Inside, I head downstairs to Zoey’s morgue.

“Hey, sugar snookums!” I yell, laughing a bit at the nickname that started as a joke to irritate Thelma and Louise but now makes me smile. But I don’t find Zoey. Instead, I find Sheriff Barnes sitting at Zoey’s desk with a file folder open in front of him, papers spread out along the desk’s surface. “Oh, hey, Sheriff. You looking into Yvette Horne? I can pass along what I have if it’d be helpful?”

One thing at a time. I’ll make sure he handles the investigation properly, and then I’ll kill him for whatever he did to piss off Zoey.

His eyes narrow and he swipes a hand over his mouth, smoothing his moustache down. “What the hell are you doing here?” he growls.

Whew, guess he doesn’t know about me and Zoey if he’s surprised to see me here. Good to know we hid it that well because it felt like everyone in the courtroom had to feel the tension between Zoey and me, had to know that I was sitting there with the smell of her still in my nose, the feel of her on my lips, and the desire to have her again in my heart and pants.

But the subterfuge isn’t needed anymore.

Any conflict of interest isn’t going to matter by the time this investigation is done because we’re going to prove beyond any reasonable doubt that Yvette Horne killed Richard, and any claim as beneficiary is going to be moot at that point.

“I’m here to see Zoey.”

For some reason, the five words ignite volcanoes in the sheriff’s eyes, and he stands, pushing the chair from beneath him forcefully. It rolls haywire before crashing into a table and toppling over loudly. Shoulders wide and hands clenched at his side, he snarls, “Haven’t you done enough to that poor girl?”

Uhm, what?

I didn’t do anything. He did.

Which I was trying to not mention until I handled the professional side of things first. But if he’s ready to rumble, he can bring it on. The sheriff might be barrel-chested and armed, but he’s old, beer-bellied, and probably—hopefully—not going to shoot me.

I send up a quick thanks for all the cardio Trey has made me do because I might need it in the next few seconds if I’m throwing down with Barnes.

“What did you say?” I sneer harshly as I wiggle my arms to loosen up a bit because I don’t want to pull a muscle with my first punch.

“Leave Zoey alone. You’ve done more than enough, asshole. I’m tempted to toss you in her refrigerator myself, ‘forget’ about you for a few days until your outsides are as frosty as your insides, and then let her cut your dick off as a trophy.”