Page 69 of Fish and Chip

His gaze does a slow slide down the catsuit and back up again. “Then we’re even. Because that thing you’re wearing has been doing things to me all night, and I’m a lot less subtle about it than you are.”

“So,” I say, “scale of one to ten, how much are you enjoying this?”

“Eleven. But that’s entirely because you’re wearing that catsuit.” His eyes do another slow tour that makes my stomach flip. “My mother being here drops it to a nine.”

“She’s always plotting something.”

“I wholeheartedly agree. And tonight she’s got that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’m about to meddle in my son’s life’ look. I’ve seen it before. It never ends well.”

His phone buzzes. He pulls it out, frowns at the screen, and his entire posture snaps into detective mode. It’s like watching a golden retriever turn into a German shepherd in real time.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“I just got some information on a lead I’ve been following.” He’s already typing a response, and his jaw is tight.

“What lead?” I can hardly breathe—although my costume might have something to do with it.

He glances at me, and I can see him weighing how much to share versus how much to keep locked down in his cop-brain.

“I’m sorry, Josie. I can’t say yet.”

Cop-brain wins. Cop-brain always wins.

He lands a quick kiss on my cheek. “I need to make a few calls and verify some details.”

“Dexter—”

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Stay here. Please be safe.”

I blink at him. “When have I ever not been safe?”

“Do you want the list chronologically or by severity of danger?”

“You’re a riot.”

He drops another kiss to my cheek, then disappears into the crowd with his phone already pressed to his ear.

And just like that, I’m standing alone at a party full of murder suspects, wearing a purple catsuit and accessorized with a cursed doll head. Such is life—on the scariest night of the year.

Somewhere out there, my guardian angel is drafting a resignation letter.

“Josie!” Georgie’s voice cuts through the crowd, and I turn to see her, Ree, and Delora descending on me like a Halloween-themed swarm.

Georgie’s crime scene tape is starting to come loose. Ree’s magnifying glass is swinging wildly from its chain. Delora’s deerstalker cap is slightly askew.

“Where’s Detective Dreamboat?” Georgie asks.

“Making calls and following a lead,” I’m quick to inform them.

“Ooh, mysterious.” Georgie wiggles her fingers. “Give me a hardworking man any day.”

“You love any man,” Ree points out.

“I raised him right,” Delora says, and somehow makes it sound like an accusation aimed at me. Her gaze drops to my left hand, lingers there long enough to conduct a full appraisal, then travels back up to my face wearing a smile of pure relief she doesn’t bother to hide. Her eyes flick over my catsuit as if it confirms every reservation she’s ever had. “At least he’s not rushing into anything.”