“You have a truck?”
“Chickens don’t transport themselves, Jules.” I test again.
Her brows scrunch, but a faint smile tugs at one corner of her lips. Good. We’re in nickname territory.
“Chickens?”
I crook a smile, heading back to the trail while she stays close enough to brush my sleeve. “You really don’t know me, do you?”
“What’s your name?” She tilts her head with a shimmery curiosity.
“Gage. And I have chickens, cats, and an alarming commitment to farmers’ markets. So, of course, I have a truck.”
The laugh she gives is almost nothing. But it is there. And God help me, I like it. I want to hear it again.
So I walk into the rain and toward my truck with the girl who has no idea she just became a serial killer’s favorite complication.
CHAPTER 3
Jubilee
If you told me an hour ago I’d be following a tattooed stranger through a thunderstorm to help hide a rapist’s body, I probably would’ve said, Yeah, that sounds like my kind of luck.
Where in the hell did this man come from?
Gage makes absolutely no sense. He stands at the back of his truck in the rain, his black shirt soaked to his skin, tattoos shining under the distant streetlight, calmly handing me a shovel like we are about to start a community garden.
“Why are there two?” I ask, my voice still trembling.
“One for me. One for you.”
He holds my gaze. Obviously, he didn’t expect company, so the shovel is probably a spare.
“You want me to dig?”
“No, Jules. I want you to stand there and look pretty for the model shoot.” He flashes me a grin and gives the muddy trail a once-over. “The location is giving felony emo chic, but the runway is shit, so we’ll improvise.”
I blurt out a laugh. But it was in my mind, so I don’t think it counts. My body is too busy remembering the crushing weight of a man on top of me.
Gage’s expression shifts in the shadows. Not pity. Good. “You don’t have to.” His tone becomes a quiet, steady cadence. “But standing there while I do it won’t help you.”
All my attention cuts to the shovel. The wood is worn smooth in places. Real and solid, it’s an object I can hold that isn’t a knife. It doesn’t bleed.
My fingers won’t cooperate when I reach out and take it. “Okay.” Thankfully, I don’t drop it.
For half a second, neither of us moves. Then Gage moves back to the truck like this is a perfectly normal errand. He reaches past a stack of empty bakery crates, a muddy pair of boots, three reusable grocery bags, a rolled-up tarp, a half-empty sack of potting soil, and what seems like an entire mobile greenhouse taking up the truck bed.
I guess he wasn’t kidding about the farmer’s markets.
“You always keep a garden center in your truck?” I ask.
“Why yes, impulse-buying plants is a full-time job. Well, part of the job.”
Who the heck is this guy?
He reaches into the truck bed and pulls out two clumpy burlap sacks, one darker and heavier than the other, before lifting a small potted plant from a crate. Yes. A potted plant like it’s the most normal accessory for a rainy night murder hike.
I fall into step beside him, both hands wrapped around the shovels. “What’s the plant for?”
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