My Killer Vacation(17)

Focus.

With a final glance across the street, I go out back to the shed. Look for the tool used to create those peepholes, hoping to get some kind of idea how long they’ve been there. But there’s nothing. Nothing but beach chairs and a flattened bike wheel. A box of mouse traps.

I go back into the house and immediately stop short.

Humming.

Someone is humming. A woman. And I have a pretty good idea who it is.

The fact that my stomach tightens like a drum doesn’t bode well for my concentration.

Rounding the corner into the living room, I find Taylor on hands and knees, using the flashlight app on her phone to search beneath the couch. “Looking for something?”

A scream rips out of her. Thankfully, it cuts off somewhere in the middle when she catches sight of my reflection in the window behind the couch. Hand pressed to her heaving chest, she twists around and slumps back against the blue and white striped furniture. “I didn’t see your bike outside.”

“I parked it down the block.”

“Why?”

“So you wouldn’t see it and scurry over here to bother me.”

That’s a bald-faced lie. I stopped for coffee down the street and it was a short walk to the house from there, not worth moving the bike over.

“Oh,” she says, her mouth turning down at the corners. “I see.”

I almost tell her the truth. Almost. Just to get her to stop frowning. Who am I becoming?

Definitely not the kind of person who wants to tell her she looks pretty in her blue jumpsuit thing.

“What are you doing over here, half pint?”

She purses her lips in lieu of answering me. “Why are you so determined to make us enemies? Do you truly find me annoying or were you stung badly in the past by another WASPy girl from Connecticut and you’re taking it out on me?”

“I truly find you annoying.”

I’m lying again. I actually think she’s pretty goddamn funny. And persistent.

Gorgeous as fuck. Can’t forget about that.

“Thank you for being honest.” She stands up, dusting off the seat of her shorts. Which are connected to the matching top. What are those called? Rompers? What is the easiest way to get one of those things off? “Did you know a lot of friendships are formed because two people share a common enemy? That’s us. We’re united against whoever murdered Oscar.”

“I work alone. We are united in nothing.”

“Okay, but we both want the same thing. We have a commonality. My students form bonds over their dislike of homework. Eventually they realize how many other things they have in common.” She gives a brisk clap of her hands. “Let’s do some morale building. On three, let’s both say something we dislike.”

I can imagine her in front of a class, commanding attention. Colorful and engaging and creative. She’s probably amazing at what she does. “I don’t want to play—”

“One. Two. Three. Scream sneezers.”

“I said I didn’t want to…” A laugh scales the insides of my throat, almost making its way out of my mouth. “What was that?”

“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.”