Page 90 of Trigger Happy

From somewhere behind me, I hear Sabrina mutter something that sounds suspiciously like what the fuck?

Bobbi thinks about it. “Uh… I guess I like matching socks.”

Called it—psychopath.

“Good to know.” I grunt. “What do you want?”

I don’t bother hiding my irritation. No need to play nice if she’s shaving dead women’s heads after matching all her socks.

That grin of hers stays in place. “I was just coming to see if Sabrina was feeling better and if you both wanted to go to the rodeo with us tonight. It’s always such a good time. Well, besides what happened with Mrs. Ogletree last year, but we don’t talk about that.”

I imagine Sabrina at a rodeo, almost burst out laughing, and say, “We’re in.”

There’s a strangled noise behind me.

“Yay! You’ll love it. Oh, and I wanted to let you know the heat’s out in the barn. We can’t fix it until tomorrow, so I brought you some extra blankets.”

The heat’s out and she can’t fix it until tomorrow? She’s got to be iceboxing a corpse somewhere.

I take the stack of blankets. “You got any wood for the fireplace?”

“No, the wood’s not seasoned yet, so you’ll just have to get cozy.”

That’s a weird excuse. Sure, seasoned wood’s been dried out for months, so it burns cleaner, but if it’s freezing, no one gives a shit if the wood’s seasoned or not.

If I wanted to be a dick about it, I could demand some firewood, but I don’t want her getting defensive. I need Bobbi comfortable. Murderers make mistakes when they feel safe, so I’ll freeze my ass off if it means she keeps thinking we’re just your average couple.

The second the door clicks shut, Sabrina balks at me. “What the hell?”

I set the blankets on the leather armchair. “Yeah, I know not all rectangles are squares, but every psychopath wears matching socks. Trust me on this.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” She runs her hands over her face and hits me with some more intense eye contact. “When she invited us to the rodeo, Bobbi called me Sabrina, Lawton. Sabrina.”

43Sabrina

Let it go,” Lawton says for the millionth time.

“I can’t,” I say, pulling down my cowboy hat over my newly dyed hair.

“I’m telling you, it’s better if we pretend we didn’t notice Bobbi called you ‘Sabrina.’ She thinks that’s your first name, remember? Maybe she just slipped because she heard me say it.”

“But if she knows my name, that means she’s hiding something—”

“Yeah,” he says. “Like she spends her Friday nights scalping innocent women’s heads. We established this already. She’s the Barber of Bastrop. Or Arch is. Or they’re working together.”

“We don’t have enough proof yet to make that assumption,” I say, massaging my shoulder. It’s already feeling better thanks to the ice pack Lawton made me keep on it all day. “We need more evidence.”

“How is a closet of human wigs not enough proof?” he drawls.

“Because I need it to be airtight.” I already can’t stop worrying about the state of how we left things in the wig dungeon. I went back earlier today with gardening gloves and a balaclava to make sure the hatch looked exactly like we found it.

And then there’s Lawton.

I keep trying not to notice the heat of him, or how he walks just behind me now, instead of right to the side or in front of me, like he’s watching my back.

It’s all fake.

That was as real as it gets.