CHAPTER 75
News outlets on an endless loop: grainy video clips, flashing sirens, men in suits handcuffed and shoved into black SUVs.
Every channel. Every headline.
And all I can think is,what if I landed on the news and someone recognized me from the night of Travis’ murder?
Because nothing screamsI’m totally not a murdererlike showing up in the background, blood-splattered, holding a dog hostage.
Bless Roger for ordering me to leave the van.
If I had stayed five more minutes, I’d be a TikTok meme by now.
#HomicideHoney
#BloodyBarbie
#DextersDarkPassenger
Just thinking about it makes my stomach cramp.
Which is why there’s zero chance I’m staying home waiting for anxiety to eat me alive.
It’s Saturday, and my escape plan is simple: pretend yesterday didn’t happen, glue myself to something semi-normal, and hope if I act like a functional adult long enough, maybe I’ll become one.
The precinct is my best bet.
Surely, even my skull-masked stalker wouldn’t be bold enough to follow me there.
Probably.
Hopefully.
Whatever.
Dexter, of course, has his own plans.
Plans that involve being treated like the spoiled little prince he is.
I dress him in a golf outfit because if I have to suffer through today pretending to be okay, he can suffer through wearing plaid pants and a matching hat.
He shoots me a betrayed look as I tuck tiny doggy sunglasses over his nose.
“You look fabulous,” I tell him, adjusting the beret behind one floppy ear. “Own it.”
Dexter huffs and flounces off toward the door, pants swishing with indignation.
I pack his tote—yes, a tote—complete with gourmet treats, chilled water, and two hand-prepped meals.
At the last second, I hold up two of his favorite crystal dishes.
He taps one with a paw like a judgmental little king.
At least someone here has it together.
Files? Packed.
Coffee? Secured.
Dog? Accessorized within an inch of his life.
My world may be crumbling like a soggy granola bar, but this?
This I can control.
My outfit is pure bubblegum warfare, as Roger once labeled it.
Pink leggings, pink crop top, pink tennies, and oversized white sunglasses.
I crank up theLegally Blondesoundtrack as I slide behind the wheel, the cheerful beat pumping like a lifeline.
If Elle Woods can get into Harvard, I can survive whatever today throws at me.
Probably.
Maybe.
The second I push through the precinct doors, the scent of burnt coffee and floor polish hits me like a weirdly comforting slap.
Do I have a doggy stroller? I plead the fifth.
I’m too busy wrestling the door to our little war room, grumbling a very mature, “Monkey muffins!”
When I finally win the battle and step inside, my eyes land on Roger.
Already here.
He’s bent over a drawer of files, sleeves shoved up like he’s personally at war with the paperwork.
Knuckles raw and cut, probably from taking down the city’s scum in yesterdays raid. The sight of it pulls at my heart.
He’s frozen, watching me cast voodoo hexes at the door.
For a second, I consider retreating.
Pretending I walked into the wrong building blaming it on cold foam and poor life choices.
There’s a beat of silence—like he’s not sure what to say.
He clears his throat. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”
I set Dexter’s carrier down and adjust my crop top like that’s going to fix the nerves fluttering through me.
“I didn’t know you worked weekends,” I counter, forcing a smile.
There’s a tiny pause, then, very dryly, “...And he’s pink.”
Dexter, right on cue, trots out of the carrier like he owns the damn building.
Plaid pants swishing. Sunglasses still perched.
Beret glittering like a tiny, judgmental tiara.
If I die of secondhand embarrassment today, at least my dog looked fabulous.
“This is Dexter,” I announce, handing Roger a treat from my tote. “He doesn’t like men much. You might want to come bearing gifts.”
Roger gives me a look—half amused, half skeptical—but crouches and offers the treat.
“Eh, I’m good with dogs.”
Dexter sniffs once, then takes it. No growl.
I blink.
“Wow. He usually growls at... everyone.”
I catch myself—the stalker still too close to the surface—and smile tightly.
Dexter never likes men.
Except, apparently, the one I’m trying not to crush on.
The one I definitely shouldn’t want.
Because we work together.
And it would be messy.
Naturally, the day I decide to move on, Dexter gives him a human-of-the-year award.
Et tu, Dexter?
Silence stretches between us.
Not hostile. Not cold.
Just... heavy.
Like we’re both dragging around a conversation we’re too scared to start.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—about the weather, the Mets, literally not kissing in closets.
But Roger beats me to it.
“I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable,” he says.
Voice low. Rough around the edges.
“In the closet. I was just trying to calm you down. Maybe I got carried away.”
Oh.
My heart twists.
Because for a moment—I let myself wonder. What if.
I plaster on a bright smile, forcing the lie to come easily.
“No, of course not. It was just... a lot. You know? Stress. Adrenaline. Tiny closet.”
He nods once.
But something flickers in his eyes I can’t read.
And because I’m a walking panic attack in human form, I blurt:
“You probably have a girlfriend anyway.”
Smooth, Paty. Very smooth.
God, someone shoot me with a tranquilizer dart.