My Killer Vacation

“Scream sneezers. People who feel the need to make such a huge, loud production out of their sneeze that everyone loses ten years off their life. I dislike that very much.”

“You can’t just say you hate it, can you?”

“I don’t allow the word ‘hate’ in my classroom.”

“We aren’t in your classroom,” I point out.

Though I would like to see her there.

Just a glimpse, for no particular reason.

“I have to stay in practice.” She skirts the coffee table in my direction and I spy tan lines on her shoulders, peeking out from beneath her tank top straps. Making me wonder where else she’s got them. Her hips? Breasts? Bet there’s a low triangle between her thighs. Shit. “I bet you have to be really mean to be a bounty hunter. You’re definitely keeping in practice for that, aren’t you?” I don’t answer her. Mainly because the scent of apples is growing stronger and it’s hindering my ability to make words. “Do you like your job?” she asks.

“It’s just a job.”

“A violent one. A scary one.”

I can’t disagree with that, so I nod, wondering where she’s going with this. Waiting for the next word out of her mouth like a reward, when I should really be carrying her over my shoulder back to the house across the street and ordering her to stay put.

“Do you ever track someone down and want to let them go?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Once.” Did I just say that out loud? I had no intention of telling her this. Or anything. The plan was to be as rude as possible until she left and went somewhere safe to enjoy her vacation. As far as possible from a murder investigation. “I let someone go once.”

“Really?” she whispers, like we’re sharing a secret.

I shouldn’t want this sense of not being alone. Normally I don’t mind it. The loneliness and solitude. Hell, I welcome it. But I must be having a moment of weakness. Or maybe I’m tired from reading through internet searches galore last night. Because I find myself…talking to this teacher. The way I haven’t talked to anyone in a long time. Years. “Mother of three. She…was afraid to show up for her court date because the father of her kids was threatening to be there. Make trouble, take off with the kids. Make her pay for leaving. Someone probably brought her into the cops eventually, but I couldn’t do it.”

“What did you do with her instead?”

“Nothing.” She stares at me until I feel forced to fill the silence. “I don’t know what happened after I took them to the shelter.”

Her eyes soften to a different kind of green. Like something out of a tropical fucking rainforest and I find myself leaning way too close, trying to determine the shade. Why is she looking at me like that? I mean to sound callous and dismissive. Not to make her happy with me. “What is teaching like?” I growl, purely to get the focus off myself.

Not because I want to know things about her.

“I love teaching,” she says quietly. “And I’ve only had to turn in one of the kids to the police over a missed court date.”

I laugh and grunt at the same time. It’s a terrible, gravelly sound, but it makes her smile. A smile I’m looking at way too closely. Sidling in, wondering what it’ll taste like. Wondering how rompers come off or if they just get ripped down the middle or what.

“See?” she murmurs. “You laughed. I can’t be so bad to have around. Let’s try again. Name something you dislike on three.”

I knew it. She was lulling me into a false sense of security. “No,” I bite off.

“One, two…”

“Allen keys,” I half shout.

At the same time, she says, “People who crowd the drink pick-up counter at Starbucks and stare impatiently at the poor barista as if they aren’t trying their hardest to hurry. Honestly, it’s—” Her eyes widen on an inhale. “Wait, did you say Allen keys? I dislike those, too! I have a junk drawer full of them because I feel guilty throwing them away! This is good. Just a couple of co-investigators having a bonding sesh.”

“None of that last sentence is remotely true.” Her crestfallen expression is like having an alligator jaw clamped around my middle. Before I can talk myself out of it, I find myself softening my tone. Stepping closer. Inhaling apples like I’m storing up her scent for the winter. “Look, something feels weird about this case and I don’t…like…you around that. So.”

Taylor blinks. “You don’t like me around what?”

She’s prodding something I don’t want prodded. “Danger.”

How can she look so confused when I basically just showed my hand? How much more clearly can I spell out that having her around potential threats makes me queasy? “I’m a consenting adult. I choose my own risks.”