Or surprised, actually.
He cocks his head, his face betraying nothing. “You’re thinking about killing me.” It’s not so much a question as a calm repeat of what I’ve just said.
“I do it all the time.” I don’t know why I’ve decided to tell all my secrets to the absolute worst person to confess them to, but here we are. He did say that he wanted the truth from me. This is one I can actually give him. “With everyone. I think about killing them.”
“Like…” He shifts, and then pauses, and I see his gaze flick briefly to the bag by the door, which has the microphone. He wants to ask whether he can record this.
He doesn’t. He’s good enough at this to know when the answer will be no.
“Like intrusive thoughts,” I say. “I can’t stop them. I pick a weapon, and I imagine killing people.”
“You pick a weapon.” He speaks slowly.
“Whatever’s around. I get creative.”
His lips twitch. Maybe in amusement, maybe in fear. I don’t know which one I’m rooting for.
“Which weapon did you choose in here?”
“The glass first.” I point to it. “That wouldn’t kill you, though. So, the knife.” I touch my own throat. “Then the lamp.”
“The lamp?”
“I’d bash it against your head.”
“I think it’s too heavy for you to get enough momentum to do that.”
“I’m not always realistic.”
“Sure.”
“And suffocating you with a pillow. Later. When you’re asleep.”
His neutral expression cracks with that one. He takes in a slow breath.
“That one’s realistic,” he says, his voice strained.
“Maybe not. You could wake up and fight me off.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Maybe.”
“Depends on how long it takes you to wake up,” I say.
“And how strong you are.” He’s staring at me with a look I can’t identify, until he shifts slightly in his chair, and I see it. He’s turned on.
I stand and walk to him. I hike up my dress as I lower onto his lap, straddling him.
I put both my hands around his neck.
“Or I could just strangle you right now.”
He meets my gaze. His breathing is ragged.
I take one hand off his neck to unzip his pants. I move my underwear to one side. He sucks in a breath as I raise my hips, and then lower them so he slides inside me.
I put both hands around his neck again, squeezing tighter this time.
I lean closer, my lips against his ear. “You took Paige’s key back. How long do you think it would be until they discovered your body?”
He makes a strangled noise. I grip harder, grinding my hips against his.
“It would be a good ending, don’t you think? Podcaster gets murdered by the woman everyone thought he was going to exonerate? People would remember you forever. The guy who solved the case, but he got killed while fucking the murderer.”
I lean back to look at him. His chin is tilted back, his face red.
“Tighter, tighter!” Savvy cheers.
Ben’s body jerks, another strangled noise escaping from his throat. He goes still.
I slowly let go of his neck.
He lets out a whoosh of air. His gaze doesn’t leave the ceiling for several seconds as he breathes heavily.
He finally meets my gaze, his face still flushed.
I lean forward. When I speak, my lips brush against his.
“Maybe I’ll kill you later tonight.”
He smiles.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
LUCY
Mom is sitting at the kitchen table when I come downstairs the next evening, crutch leaning on the wall beside her. The sun streaks through the back door, but she hasn’t turned on a light, so it’s dim in the kitchen, her phone screen the only bright spot. Her gaze is downcast, and Ben’s voice plays softly from her phone.
She looks up at me and quickly pauses the podcast. I pick up my purse from the hook on the door.
“Where do you go every night?” she asks.
“You don’t want to know.”
She presses her lips together and considers that for a moment. She nods.
“You really published three books without telling me?” she asks.
“You’ve never been good at keeping secrets.”
She lets out a loud, short laugh. I guess that means she disagrees.
“You wouldn’t like them anyway,” I say.
“Why not?”
“You’re a literary snob. They’re not literary.”