Page 23 of What We Bury

“Me.” I keep my voice low, easy. We’re just two people having an intimate conversation on a Saturday morning. Nothing to see.

“What are you doing here?”

“Stopping you from doing something stupid, like going back to that beach.”

Her jaw works. “I left my purse behind.”

“And you think we’d leave it there?”

“No—I don’t know. But I need it.”

“Need’s a strong word, wildcat.”

“My phone’s in it.” Her voice drops, careful, like she’s testing ice. “And someone answered Amy last night. Texted her back. As me.” She searches my face. “That was one of you.”

“That was Milo.” I keep my voice low. “Your roommate wanted to know you got home safe. So he sent her a thumbs up and she stood down. You’re welcome.”

She doesn’t say anything, so I give her the rest.

“The bag’s safe. It’ll be back where it belongs by the time you’re home.” I let that settle, then let myself ask the thing I’ve been turning over in my mind since Knox gave me the handover report. “Tell me something. Your keys were in that bag. How’d you get inside last night?”

Her chin comes up. “Same thing anyone would do. I buzzed apartments until someone let me into the building.”

“That doesn’t explain how you had a key to your front door.”

She shrugs. “We keep a spare in the planter by our door.”

“Classic.” I lean back and let out a rough laugh. “You do realize that’s how most home invasions happen, yeah? Smart girl like you—I’d expect at least a fake rock for the spare. Or a secondary deadbolt.”

“There’s not a lot worth stealing in our apartment.”

I search her face for the crack where I can pour myself in. “You think you’re not worth something?”

Her eyes flick up, hold mine for a beat before she tries to slide sideways to get away. I block her, hand still braced above her head. Her face giving,fuck, fuck, fuck.

I could get drunk off the terror-teetering-on-challenge in it.

“You know,” I say, letting the topic drop. “I didn’t peg you as a cute pink, beaded clutch person.”

“It’s not mine,” she grinds out. “It’s Amy’s.”

“Ahh. The roommate. Makes sense. You strike me as more of a knuckle-duster purse type. Or one covered in studs.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Those are designer and I don’t have that kind of money.”

I smile. She’s got bite, this one. Even cornered and terrified, she’s snapping back. It makes me want to see what else she’d do with the right kind of pressure. I’d love to find out—my hand around her neck, her legs pinned open, my palm over her mouth while she learns the difference between fear and wanting.

She glares up at me and I let myself enjoy the staring contest. She doesn’t win. Her gaze flickers, then comes back, and I smile—small, knowing, predatory—just to watch her reaction.

“You gonna give me my things or stare at me all day?” she snaps.

Fuck, I’m turned on by the flash of fire in her eyes.

“Maybe I like looking at you,” I say. “Your vibe is ‘two seconds from biting me.’ It’s working for you.”

Her fists clench tighter, and for a half second, I swear she’s going to punch me.

Oh baby, bring it on.