CHAPTER 76
Roger’s expression shifts—barely. The smile fades. Something quieter moves in.
“No girlfriend.”
The words hit like a dart to the chest.
No girlfriend.
Sweet buttered pancakes, Paty—you already knew that!
Sebastian grilled him like a steak last week in a speed round of “Roger’s Love Life.”
I should nod politely.
Change the subject.
Go about my day like a fully functional adult.
But no.
Because my life is a flaming dumpster on roller skates, I hear myself say:
“Do you…date?”
Oh no.
Abort the mission.
ABORT.
“I mean—not that I care,” I rush, hands waving like I can erase the words midair. “It’s not professional to ask. You don’t have to answer.”
Why are words still happening?
Roger’s mouth curves into a slow smile—small, warm, devastating.
“No, I don’t date,” he says. “But…”
I hold my breath.
“Thereisa woman I’m interested in.”
And just like that, my heart crumples like a soggy paper crane.
Of course.
Of course he likes someone.
Probably someone who isn’t babysitting a shichon in plaid pants and an emotional support beret.
He’s being polite.
Kind.
Sending me the subtle “please stop hurling yourself at me” signal.
I scramble for dignity. For oxygen. For a distraction.
I snap Dexter’s leash on.
“Well,” I manage, too brightly, “good luck. She’d be lucky to have you.”
Before he can say anything—before my word vomit evolves into word diarrhea—I turn on my heel and march toward the door, cheeks burning, Dexter strutting beside me like he’s auditioning for America’s Next Top Model.
I barely make it down the steps before my burner phone starts buzzing like an angry wasp in a coffee can.
Not my regular phone.
The burner.
Perfect.
I know I shouldn’t look.
Nothing good lives on that screen.
But I have the self-preservation instincts of a drunk raccoon, so I glance anyway.
UNKNOWN: You running away from me, Sunny?
My heart lurches so hard I nearly trip.
I shouldn’t respond.
I shouldn’t have kissed him.
I definitely shouldn’t have wanted to.
Resolve hardening, I shove the phone back into the thigh pocket of my leggings and pick up the pace.
Dexter waddles beside me in full plaid regalia, looking personally offended by everything.
Another buzz.
My stomach flips—traitorous and stupid.
UNKNOWN: He better stay away from you.
He?
Roger’s face flashes in my mind.
The thought of anyone touching him—hurting him—makes my chest seize.
Thumbs flying, I type:
PATY: We’re working a case. Occupational requirement.
Reply comes immediately.
UNKNOWN: Not the detective. The prick walking up to you.
What—
I spin just in time to see Graham jogging across the lot, all slicked-back hair and cologne-test smarm.
He throws up a hand in a wave.
I cringe on instinct.
Dexter starts growling.
Low. Menacing.
Snaggle tooth flashing like a prison shank.
Graham doesn’t notice.
Smarm turned up to eleven.
“Hey, Paty. How’d the raid go?” he asks like we’re besties and not mortal enemies.
“Hey, Graham.”
Buzz.
UNKNOWN: Make him leave. Or I will.
My heart kicks hard.
Graham crouches—reaching for Dexter like he’s petting a golden retriever, not a plaid-clad war criminal in dog form.
“Don’t—” I start.
Too late.
Dexter lunges.
Snaps.
Snarls like he’s auditioning for a prison riot.
Graham yelps, jerking back.
His face contorts like he’s not sure whether to sue me or disinfect his soul.
I slap a hand over my mouth to smother the laugh clawing its way out.
“Bad boy,” I scold, half-hearted at best, tugging Dexter back.
Buzz.
UNKNOWN: Good boy.
UNKNOWN: Let him bite the fucker so I don’t have to.
I roll my eyes so hard I might sprain something.
“Sorry, Graham, what was your?—”
PATY: Stop stalking me.
I jab the screen mid-sentence.
Immediate reply.
UNKNOWN: Can’t. I tried.
And the worst part?
I like it.
I shouldn’t.
It’s unhinged.
It’s toxic.
It’s… intoxicating.
“Um, Paty?” Graham blinks at me, still trying to recover from Dexter’s assassination attempt.
Before I can answer, another text buzzes in:
UNKNOWN: I like to see you smile.
My traitorous mouth twitches—reflexive, helpless.
I immediately scowl to counteract it and scan the parking lot.
Where is he?
No skull masks.
No brooding bikers.
Just a few precinct workers and a mom wrangling toddlers into a minivan.
PATY: I only smile for people who don’t walk out in the middle of kissing me.
There. That’ll show him.
Put the stalker in his place.
Oh. Right.
Graham is still here.
UNKNOWN: Touché
“How about dinner tonight?” he asks, flashing teeth a little too white. “I make a mean pasta puttanesca.”
Dexter’s growl cranks up to full Tasmanian Devil.
Teeth bared. Eyes narrowed. Ready for round two.
And because my brain panics under romantic pressure, I blurt?—
“Oh! I have dinner plans tonight.”
But do I stop there?
Of course not.
“Did you know pasta puttanesca was made by sex workers in twentieth-century Naples?”
Silence.
Flat, dead-air silence.
The kind that makes you wish the earth would just open up and swallow you whole.
I want to bash my head into the pavement.
“Anyhoo!” I chirp, scooping up Dexter like my life depends on it. “Gotta get back to work. Talk later!”
Dexter yaps triumphantly, like he’s cheering my exit.
I speed-walk back into the precinct like my hiney is on fire, mentally stuffing that entire interaction into the vault where I keep middle school trauma and every failed first date.
I’m halfway to the bullpen when Roger intercepts me.
File tucked under one arm.