Page 19 of When I Accidentally Snagged a Serial Killer

“Very educational.”

“You learned to put roadkill over a human grave from Netflix?”

“Streaming services contain multitudes.”

Her eyes glitter. Thank God. Because obviously I am not going to tell her. Hey, Jules, remember when we passed each other on a jogging trail, and you asked how worried you should be that I was a serial killer? Hilarious story. You absolutely nailed it.

Christ, Gage. What the fuck are you doing? There is a reason I don’t have relationships. Dates, sure. Kissing. Enough carefully controlled encounters to convince the world I’m perfectly normal. But never enough to let anyone all the way in.

Manageable. Temporary is safe.

Only one woman knows why I occasionally disappear at one in the morning with nitrile gloves in my saddlebags.

Jubilee has known me less than twenty-four hours, and she’s already playing dangerous investigator.

The waitress appears beside our table with the coffee carafe tucked against one hip. “You two doing okay?” she asks brightly.

“Excellent,” I tell her.

Jubilee points at me. “He’s lying about a raccoon.”

The waitress pauses. I sip my coffee. She looks between us. “Do I want to know?”

“No,” Jubilee and I answer simultaneously.

The woman nods like this is above her pay grade. “Refills?”

“Yes, please,” I say.

She tops mine off, then Jubilee’s, before retreating toward a less alarming table. Jubilee watches her go. “I think we scared her.” Her gaze slides back to me. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

“And you’re very persistent before two in the afternoon.”

“I work nights.” She nods to me. “This is morning.”

“That sentence hurts me professionally.”

She smiles into her coffee. A small one, but real. It feels like winning.

I reach for my phone. Jubilee tracks the device. “What are you doing?”

“Professional assessment.”

I angle the camera over the table and take a picture of my plate, carefully excluding her. Rule number one of having more than five million people following your life online: never tell exactly where you are while you’re still there. Unless it’s for official event reasons.

Also useful when a subsection of your life involves homicide.

I open my notes app. “Food, three and a half,” I announce.

Her whole face objects. “Three and a half?”

“The eggs are over.”

“You ate almost all of them.”

“I am capable of consuming disappointment.”

She leans across the table and peers at my plate. “What about the potatoes?”