He blinks. “What?”
“Nothing. Bad joke.” I reach for my water glass to hide the flush creeping up my neck. But you can bet your bottom dollar I’m doing my best to scour his mind—although at the moment nothing seems to be sailing through it. “How was your day?”
“Long. Complicated. Better now.” His smile has the wattage of a lighthouse. “Yours?”
“Oh, you know. The usual. Looked into that dead body, interrogated a baker, tried to track down a suspect, got banned from a knitting circle. Tuesday stuff.”
“Banned from a knitting circle?”
“Clarabelle may have insulted someone’s choice of yarn color. After Peggy accidentally baptized their projects in maple syrup. It escalated quickly.”
His laugh rumbles through the space between us, and for a moment, all my suspicions feel ridiculous.
This is Killion.
MyKillion. The straightest arrow in the Eagle County Sheriff’s Department, a man who once returned a wallet with five hundred dollars inside and then refused the reward because “it’s just what people should do.”
“I stopped by the precinct to bring you some donuts, but you weren’t there,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere aroundobviously checking up on you.
Killion freezes mid-sip of water and his expression shifts like someone just changed the channel. “I had a very important follow-up on the Maple case.”
I try to read his thoughts once again, but all I get is white noise—that static fuzz that usually means he’s thinking something naughty and/or trying to shield me from whatever is truly going on up there.
Killion wouldn’t be doing that, would he? That’s diabolical. Although he has been known to do it now and again. It’s a protective mechanism he’s developed, like mental earmuffs for my mind-reading abilities.
It turns out, I’m something called transmundane, further classified as telesensual. Apparently, there are other supernatural abilities that fall under the transmundane umbrella, like peering into tomorrow, time travel, and evenseeing the dead. But I’m not seeing the dead, although Killion might be a dead man if he’s hiding something from me.
The waitress arrives—Tiffany, a college student who’s working here to pay off her student loans sometime before retirement age. “The usual for you two?” she asks with her pen poised over her pad.
“Please,” Killion says, handing her the menus we haven’t even opened.
“One burger, medium-rare with extra pickles and sweet potato fries, and one grilled chicken salad with the dressing on the side because someone’s pretending to be healthy even though I know she’s going to steal half his fries,” Tiffany recites with a grin.
“You know us too well.” I laugh.
“That’s why I get the big tips.” She winks before bouncing away.
I lean across the table, unable to contain my curiosity any longer. “Well, are you going to keep me in suspense? What did you learn about the case?”
Killion’s brow furrows. “What case?”
“The Maple case. The very important follow-up you just mentioned.”
“Oh, right.” His eyes dart like he’s reading an invisible teleprompter. “Actually, toxicology said they would be contacting me shortly.”
I lean in farther, my elbows firmly planted on the table in a way that would make my mother reach for her smelling salts. “That’s why you left the office?”
His eyes widen just as his phone chirps from his pocket. He extracts it with the careful precision of someone handling nitroglycerin, glances at the screen, and nearly fumbles it onto the floor as if it suddenly transformed into a live lobster.
“I’m sorry, Hattie. Please excuse me. I have to take this,” he mutters, rising from his chair so fast it almost topples backward.
I watch him take off toward the entrance, and I’m completely baffled. He has to take atext? Since when does anyonetakea text message like it’s an urgent phone call?
I shake my head, but before I can tumble too far down the Venetta Brandt redheaded rabbit hole, a whirlwind of blonde hair and designer perfume crashes into the seat Killion just vacated.
“Hattie-goes-batty,” Bunny purrs, as if we haven’t seen each other in years instead of hours. “You’ll never believe who I’m with tonight. Only the most delicious investment banker from Portland. He has a yacht the size of a cruise ship,” she says this as if he’s discovered the cure for cancer.
“How very nautical of him,” I offer. “Where is this seafaring Prince Charming?”
