“Well, I found Keme—”
“In detail.”
At the look on his face, I swallowed. And then I squared my shoulders (as best I could while perched on a Victorian-ish commode), and said, “I tripped when I stepped off the curb.”
Bobby said some words that deputies arenotallowed to say on duty.
“I did,” I said. “I’m notoriously clumsy. I fell off the sofa the other day.”
“Because you were asleep.” Bobby straightened. “I don’t care if he’s having a hard week. I’m going to talk to him.”
“Bobby, I tripped.” I grabbed his hand. As carefully as I could, I said, “It was an accident, and it’s not going to happen again.” His face was still stone, so I added, “Please?”
Unhappiness settled across Bobby’s features, but after another moment, he relaxed. He pulled me against him, ran his fingers carefully through my hair, and said in a gravelly voice, “I hate seeing you get hurt.”
“I know.”
“I should have been there.”
I shook my head, which was no mean feat with my face tucked into him. He smelled nice—like something delicious. It took me a moment to pinpoint it as fried chicken (it was strangely homey). After a few more moments of letting myself relax against him, I drew back and said, “I do think you need to talk to him, though. He needs to know you guys are—how do surfers say ‘we’re still cool’?”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“We’re totally going to chillax, bro.”
Bobby brushed my hair back from my forehead.
“Everything’s gnarly, buddy. Ten-four.”
“Ten-four?”
“I meant hang ten.”
Bobby sighed.
“Surf’s up. Cowabunga. Tubular.”
He slapped my thigh, and I yelped.
“Oops,” Bobby murmured. “Come on. You need to get out of that bloody shirt. And then a bath—no showers until that’s had a day or two to heal.”
It’s surprisingly hard to resist an armed deputy, who also happens to be your incredibly handsome boyfriend, when he decides to take your clothes off (in case you ever find yourself in a similar situation).
“You know what the worst part is?” I asked as Bobby started the hot water. “I thought if I could talk to Keme, if I could get him to open up to me, I’d finally be able to figure out what was going on. I thought he’d have some key piece of information, some tiny detail that didn’t seem meaningful to him, but that could unlock the whole investigation?”
“That’s not always how real investigations work,” Bobby said. “Sometimes, there are no witnesses. Sometimes, there aren’t any clues. Sometimes, bad people get away with doing bad things.”
“I hate that. That’s terrible. Real-life mysteries should always follow the three-act structure. They should have a femme fatale who complicates everything with a web of relationships, including a big one that surprises you at the end. They should have an intrepid detective who sees through her, um, malarkey.”
“That sounds kind of sexist.”
“It could be an homme fatal. Or athemfatal! What ifFoxis the killer?”
“How hard did you hit your head?” Bobby asked as he checked the water. Then he pointed to the tub. “In.”
This was where we got back to the I’m-basically-a-straight-guy-so-casual-nudity-doesn’t-faze-me thing. I stripped out of my joggers and trunks, and I slipped into water hot enough to sting at first, and then I melted. My eyes closed. I sank down until my chin touched the water. I swear to God I could feel every aching muscle loosening up all at once.
The jingle of a belt made me open my eyes.
