Page 112 of When I Accidentally Snagged a Serial Killer

“Soon.”

“Vague.” She sticks out her tongue.

“Keep that up, I’ll find another use for it.” I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.

“Is that supposed to be a threat?”

Fair point. God, she’s perfect. Rust-red floral dress, jack-o’-lantern stockings, brown boots, and that adorably ridiculous burgundy bow at the end of her braid. Like she planned this entire outfit to torture me. But with her current sass, she looks like autumn developed an attitude problem.

She inches a hand toward the radio touchscreen—as if I don’t notice.

“Absolutely not.” I smack her hand away.

She tips her head back and groans, “Oh, come on!”

“Not a chance. Every song you played sounded like someone screaming through a wood chipper.”

She slumps in her seat. “That’s emotional expression.”

“That’s a workplace accident,” I counter.

She blows a raspberry and picks at her nails. “Maybe if you weren’t such a grandpa.”

I chuckle. “Got my music tastes from my Grandpa. Motown. Classic country. Bluegrass. Some polka.”

“Ugh! I take it back. Grandpa was generous.” She pokes her finger toward me. “You are one orthopedic shoe away from retirement.”

“Okay, okay, compromise. Evanescence,” I propose.

A pause. She purses her lips. “Proposal accepted.”

Oh, it’s too easy. I incline my chin ever so slightly, one side of my mouth tugging up, a shit-eating smirk. Her brows draw together in suspicion until it dawns on her.

“Oh, fuck off. You know I didn’t mean it like that.” She crosses her arms over her chest.

I laugh heartily and cue up the emo music, though she ironically does not have an emo complex.

I should have regrets when she belts out a highly offensive, off-key string of lyrics. But everything Jubilee does is magic to me.

About five songs later, the scenery begins to look familiar. Jubilee turns the volume down to stare at the scenery.

We pass through a small town with a gas station, a diner, a hardware store, and storefront windows crowded with pumpkins, mums, and hand-painted harvest signs. A few minutes beyond Main Street, the houses spread farther apart, and the road narrows to open fields, weathered fences, and clusters of maples and oaks glowing gold, bronze, and deep red beneath the gray-blue sky.

The old two-story farmhouse sits close enough to the town for grocery convenience, but the nights are still quiet. Jubilee leans forward, smiling at the maples flanking the drive. The pale siding shimmers in the autumn sunlight, and the deep porch stretches across the front.

And there’s the hobby farm I grew up on. Well, the remnants—weathered red barn, fenced pasture, chicken coop, garden beds, and the trees Grandpa planted decades ago standing thick along the back acreage.

Jubilee points toward the driveway. “Wait. Is that Maisie’s car?”

I nod as I turn in. “Sure is.”

Her attention snaps back to me. “And where exactly are we?”

Gravel crunches beneath the tires as I pull up beside Maisie’s car, park, and kill the engine. “My home.” Her lips part, all the teasing draining from her face. I level with her. “The one I grew up in.”

She swallows hard. “Gage.”

I reach over and squeeze her knee. “Come on, Princess. My mom is really eager to meet you.”