“Ahh. God forbid we get stressed.” I switch to Bluetooth on my jog through the parking lot. “There hasn’t been a murder or anything.”
She sniffs. “You should know that sarcasm makes me shut down. There was a very sarcastic bully who lived next door to us growing up. He called me Shaquille O’Neal in front of the whole neighborhood. All because I was short. I couldn’t walk by without him demanding I dunk on their hoop in the street. To this day, I cry every time I see Shaq, which is very unfair. By all accounts, he’s a lovely man.”
My teeth are grinding together.
To keep from growling or laughing, I have no idea. I’ve lost my fucking mind.
Now I’m also roaring out of the motel parking lot at fifty miles an hour, skidding sideways on the main road and correcting my bike in the direction of Coriander Lane. “Did you walk east or west on the beach?”
“What am I? A compass?” I can picture her wrinkled nose. It makes me ride faster. “We walked down the staircase that leads from the end of our block down to the beach. And we hung a right. Does that help?”
“Send me a pin of your location.”
“Oh yeah. I can do that.” My phone buzzes in my pocket a moment later and I pull over long enough to map a route to the closest block to where she’s waiting on the beach. “Do you have all of the necessary equipment for evidence collection?”
Do not even think of smiling. You’re on a slippery slope. “Yes, Taylor,” I sigh.
“Fabulous. Then I’ll see you in a while—”
“Oh no.” My hand tightens on the handlebars. “Don’t you dare hang up.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re alone in the dark and there might be a murderer in the area.”
“Are you worried about me, Myles? Not only am I out here alone and defenseless. But I should mention that my emergency stash of panties has been mysteriously depleted. I’m worried we might have two criminals on our hands. A murderer and a panty thief. This has to be some kind of record for Cape Cod.”
“You’re very funny, half pint.” Red lace. My thumb pressing through the material right there, rubbing until she’s wet. God. “You just found the potential murder weapon and you want to discuss underwear?”
“I just find it curious that you are clearly a thief and yet I am a murder suspect.”
“I don’t suspect you. There just hasn’t been cause to eliminate you yet. And if you want to get technical, miraculously finding the murder weapon doesn’t exactly exonerate a person.”
“I wish I hadn’t called you.”
That statement definitely shouldn’t make me feel like I swallowed a lit candle, right? “That’s fine, Shaquille,” I say, to play defense against the burn. “Just don’t hang up.”
She gasps.
The sound of the ocean immediately cuts out.
“Great.” The guilt is back. Thicker than ever. “She hung up.”
With a gritted curse—and my nerves running loose in every direction—I pick up speed.
Chapter 7
Taylor
* * *
I don’t even look at Myles when he arrives.
Continuing to stare straight out at the ocean, I point wordlessly toward the hill where I spotted the gun earlier, chin raised. As soon as I hear the evidence bag open and I’m confident he has found the weapon, I sail in the direction of Coriander Lane and our rental house. I’ve already texted Jude to let him know I’m heading home, though he probably won’t see the text for an hour. When the conversation interests my brother, the way it was at tonight’s impromptu get-together, he becomes thoroughly absorbed and forgets to look at his phone. It’s another one of the things I love about him. His ability to give someone his undivided attention and make them feel like they are the only human being left on planet earth.
Speaking of very few beings being left on earth, if Myles and I were the last people in existence, that would spell a very tragic end to the human race.
Not only does he refuse to eliminate me from his list of suspects, but his lack of gratitude is unspeakable. The only reason I didn’t call the Barnstable PD is my concern over their apparent unwillingness to look at anyone but Judd Forrester. Well, next time I discover a murder weapon, I am going straight to them. I’ve already mentally deleted Myles Sumner’s number from my phone. Poof. What bounty hunter?
I can’t believe he called me Shaquille.
“Taylor,” says the bounty hunter from behind me. In his deep, dumb, sexy rasp. “You’re really going to ignore me?”