Page 145 of What We Bury

He flashes a grin that makes my knees go soft. “That’s okay. I can share.”

I step back and let him in. He walks past close enough that I get a hit of his cologne—sharp, cedar-edged—and I’m aware of my own body in a way that’s irritating. Micah was in my bed this morning. I’ve had plenty of orgasms this week. The man in my living room hasn’t laid a finger on me since he pinned me to a wall and called me wildcat—he shouldn’t be affecting me this deeply.

He takes a look around the apartment like he’s cataloging it, turning a slow circle until he clocks something in the kitchen and makes a beeline for the counter.

“What are these?” He scoops up the labeled keys, turning them in his palm.

“Milo’s arts and crafts hour,” I say. “Apparently everyone gets house keys now.”

Holden reads the little strip of tape with his name on it. His mouth does something unreadable. Not quite pleased. Not quite pissed. Both, probably.

“This one’s mine?”

“Yeah.”

He pockets it. Looks at Eli’s.

“I’ll get this to him too.”

Holden pockets the second key.

“You okay with this?” he asks. “Five of us with keys to your life.”

“Areyouokay with it?”

He glances up. “I’m asking you, wildcat.”

“At this point it feels redundant.” I shrug. “You all got in here before the keys existed. They aren’t access. They just save the lock.”

“Hmm.” He moves to lean against the counter across from me, hands flat on the laminate. Three feet between us, keeping a careful distance. “That’s a pragmatic answer.”

“It’s the truth.”

“The question wasn’t really about keys.”

I meet his eyes. “I know.”

He doesn’t look away. He’s doing the same thing he was doing in the diner that first morning, where he looks at me like he’s reading something on my face. His eyes track from my mouth to my eyes and back. Once. Slow.

I have an insane urge to pounce across that counter and wrap my body around his and find out if he tastes as controlled as he looks.

“You said something about police business?” I prompt when the wanting becomes too much.

He clears his throat. “I need to take a statement from you.”

My spine goes straight.

“A statement about what?”

“Brock.” His voice is even, but there’s a tightness under it. “His parents are pushing. I need something on paper that says what you’ve already told me informally—that you went to the party, he left with you, and then he bailed. It gives me something to put in the file so nobody higher up decides to get ambitious.”

The air in the apartment shifts. Not colder. Sharper.

“And this is official?”

“Official enough to be annoying.” His mouth tilts. “Not official enough for me to drag you downtown and make you sit in an interview room under fluorescent lights.”

I cross my arms. “How generous of you.”