Page 52 of Show Me

“Concerned.”

I reach for the last light switch near the back wall…. and stop. There’s a tape measure on the counter. Not mine. I stare at it longer than I should. Black casing. Worn edges. Xavier’s. He must’ve left it earlier.

After I snatch it up, I turn it over in my hand, thumb brushing the nick along the side.

“Ruby?”

“Yeah?” I set it down a little more carefully than necessary. “I’m here.”

“You still with me?”

“Yeah.”

“If it gets complicated….”

“I’ll leave.” I’m not surprised that she knew I was thinking about Xavier again.

I stand there a second longer, listening. The house creaks, settling. The wind brushes against the siding. A piglet squeals, then quiets. Normal sounds.

“Text me when you’re in bed.”

“I’m not twelve.”

“Text me anyway.”

I shake my head, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “Fine. I will.”

After I hang up, I check the back door one more time, which feels like a ridiculous amount of overkill. It is, sadly, something I can’t stop doing.

When something hits the window, I screech and jump backward. My heart skips a beat, followed by a frantic fluttering against my ribs. I glance down at the floor deck and shake my head. It was only a branch that broke free from the tree closest to the back porch and landed against the glass.

Clearly, I’m more spooked than I’m willing to admit.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Xavier

The instant I open the back door, I smell pizza, wood, and a combination of several colognes mixed with soap. And probably a hint of sweat from the workout gear Ben left near the door.

I step inside, dropping my keys on the counter. “If that’s the last of the pizza, I’m not above fighting you for it.”

“Too late,” Ben calls from the living room. “You should’ve come home at a normal hour like the rest of us.”

“Define normal.”

“Not disappearing more nights than you show up.”

I pause halfway to the kitchen. That’s… not accurate. It’s also not wrong. I grab a slice anyway, leaning against the counter as I take a bite. Cold. Of course it’s cold. And the fact that it lands so hard I have to swallow around it bothers me more than it should. Because if Ben’s right, then this isn’t just about pizza, and I’m not ready to deal with that.

Ben stretches out on the couch, one arm thrown over the back, watching me like he’s been waiting for this conversation.

“You working late,” he says, casual in a way that isn’t casual, “or are you finding excuses to be at that house?”

“Working,” I say.

“Uh-huh.” He nods like he doesn’t believe me. “At a house at the edge of town?”

I don’t answer because answering makes it a thing.