Page 59 of Trigger Happy

“There’s no way they can solve every crime,” Bobbi shouts at the TV. “Like, how do they always find the unsubs?”

I stuff popcorn into my mouth. “Because no one would watch a show about serial killers who always got away with murder.”

“True.” She gasps, pointing at the screen. “They aren’t even wearing gloves! They’re literally contaminating a crime scene.”

“Or shoe covers,” I scoff. “Amateurs.”

“Dumbasses,” she agrees.

We shake our heads, but when our eyes meet, we both burst into laughter. I’m clearly losing my edge.

That’s how the rest of the day goes, but somewhere between the wine-drunk, mascara-smudging laughter and the third bowl of popcorn, I realize this entire conversation bothers me. Bobbi rides horses and makes candles, and yet she knows an awful lot about crime scenes.

“How do you know so much about all this?” I say as we sit crisscross on the floor.

She stuffs popcorn into her mouth. “My grandma used to love these shows. We would watch them together. It was kind of our thing… before she died.”

Her smile wobbles, and I look down at her open-faced hand. Don’t do it, don’t—

I reach for her hand. “Want to talk about it?”

She dabs at the corner of her eye with her sleeve. “I just miss her, that’s all. My grandma practically raised me after my parents died. We were close, and some days it just hits harder than others.”

I can’t tell if those tears are real. If not, she deserves an Oscar. I squeeze her hand, telling myself it’s because I need to get close to her, but really, that’s an afterthought. “What was your grandma’s name?”

“I used to call her Lolly, for Lola,” she says with a grin. “She’d drag me to these dusty estate sales all over town, hunting for the weirdest, most ‘unique’ pieces. We used to collect glass mason jars, which is what I use for my candles now.”

“She sounds like a good time.”

“She was…” Bobbi’s grin is full of memories. “But she was also kind of a bitch.”

I choke on popcorn. “What?”

“Yeah. I’ve never met a more judgy eighty-year-old. She always said ‘bless her heart,’ like that negated whatever mean comment she was about to say. Like, ‘Bless his heart, did you see Mr. Porter’s Birkenstocks? No one with toe fungus should wear those shoes.’ Or when we were in the checkout line one time, she said, ‘that girl really needs to get bangs, the forehead on her! Bless her heart.’ Now it’s kind of become a joke. Anytime someone says something rude, I just say ‘bless her heart.’ ”

I let her talk for thirty more minutes about her grandma, telling me stories of all their thrift-shop finds while I try to picture her stabbing a woman. I can’t, not with those dimples.

Bobbi glances up at me, the blue in her eyes more intense than a starless night. “You’re one of the only people who’s ever asked me about her. Most people try not to bring her up because they don’t want to upset me. So, thanks. For asking.”

She sounds genuinely surprised that I cared enough to ask. I tell myself that I only brought it up because I’m doing my job, and not because I wanted to stretch out this evening. For me, girls’ night means digging graves alone before hopping to another job, not throwing popcorn at the TV.

“Have you ever lost someone?” she asks gently.

I wilt, thinking about my dad, who’s probably writing love notes to my mom in the sand. Of a dead Betta fish waiting for me in Manhattan. “Not like you.”

Bobbi’s gaze lingers on my frown, and then she reaches across the table and squeezes my arm with a soft smile.

The worst part is… it doesn’t feel fake.

BOBBI DRAGS ME on girl-dates to places that have even worse puns than Hole-y Donut. There’s Wok and Roll on Monday for pho. Lattes at Brew-tiful on Tuesday. And Meowdy Pet Boutique on Wednesday.

She’s the most overenthusiastic BnB host I’ve ever met. Normally, people who walk around like they swallowed a rainbow are not my cup of espresso, but I can’t stop laughing along with her, and what’s even more unsettling is that my laughter is real. I’m trying to figure out what she’s hiding, but Bobbi remains frustratingly clean.

And yet…

My stomach corkscrews every time I think about the woman in the hot spring, and my gut has never steered me wrong. It’s frustrating. I don’t want to like her, but when the barista at Brew-tiful told Bobbi she didn’t need to “yell her coffee order,” and we both turned to each other and said, bless her heart, I couldn’t stop myself from grinning.

But she’s not my friend. She’s not. This is just a job.