Page 48 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

"My point exactly."

I tucked my phone into my pocket and reached for the basket again. The roses waited patiently. Flowers never judged you. They simply kept growing. I admired that.

"I am merely..."

I searched for the correct word.

"...curious."

Rosemary snorted.

"That's what every protagonist says before making a terrible decision."

"I'm not a protagonist."

She looked directly at me.

"You literally speak to the readers."

"Fair point."

For a few blessed minutes I managed to focus on the garden. Another bloom. Another stem. Another handful of weeds that had somehow appeared overnight. Peaceful, quiet. Comfortable.

My eyes drifted toward the cottage next door. The curtains in the front window were still open. His coffee mug remained on the porch railing. One moving box sat beside the steps; half collapsed from yesterday's rain. He probably left it outside after unpacking it. That’s bad for the environment, Detective but I couldn’t blame him. Moving was exhausting. I wondered what his books looked like. Whether he alphabetised them. Whether he folded his shirts. Whether he left toothpaste in the sink and if he made his bed every morning or left it exactly as he'd climbed out of it. What he smelled like.

Rosemary smiled.

"You've started wondering what his bookshelves look like."

"I have not."

"You just did."

"I wondered what kind of novels he reads, or if he even reads."

"Mmm."

"That's perfectly normal."

"Mmm."

"I don't like that 'mmm.'"

"It means you're lying to yourself."

"I prefer 'romanticising.'"

"You've known the man for approximately a day."

"One day and seventeen hours."

Rosemary blinked.

"You counted?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

"That does sound worse out loud."