Page 225 of Show Me

I climb the porch and pause long enough to check the yard. Cameras positioned correctly. Nothing near the tree line. Nothing out of place.

Then I unlock the door. Fresh wood. Coffee. Clean laundry. And paint.

I stop in the middle of the kitchen. The finished kitchen. Cabinets installed. Counters spotless. Sink gleaming beneath the window. Even the floors are clean.

“He finished it.” My fingers trail across the countertop. I move through the house slowly. Trim repaired. Flooring finished. Fresh paint. Everywhere I look, there's evidence of Xavier.

When I reach the bedroom, something makes me stop. The closet door is cracked open. I pull it wider. Two of Xavier’s flannels hang beside my clothes.

My heart stutters. I open the dresser. Jeans. T-shirts. Socks. His things. Not tossed here because he stayed overnight. Not forgotten after one of the nights we spent together. Put away. Like he belongs here. Like he intends to keep belonging here.

My throat tightens. This isn't casual. It hasn't been casual for a long time.

“Xavier?” The name escapes before I can stop it. Silence answers.

Of course. He's probably at work. Still, when I look at his clothes again, something has changed.

For weeks, I've been terrified that telling Xavier about the baby will make him stay out of obligation. But he did this before he knew. He stayed.

My hand settles over my stomach. It's time to tell him. I turn too quickly and immediately wrinkle my nose. Okay. It may be time to tell him after the room stops moving. Apparently, our baby doesn't like spinning.

Or greasy hamburgers.

Chapter One Hundred Nineteen

Xavier

I sit across from Jake’s desk, rubbing exhaustion from my eyes while he flips through a thin stack of paperwork.

I barely slept.

Someone had been inside Ruby’s house while I was fifteen feet away. Close enough to hear the shower running and know exactly when to move.

By daylight, I’d already replaced the damaged window screen. The old one gave the police nothing. No usable prints. Just another dead-end.

A whiff of burnt coffee drifts through the station as Jake drops a file onto his desk. “Alright.”

“What’d you get?”

“Brent was home when we got there. Mud in the entryway and on a pair of tennis shoes.”

My stomach tightens. “And?”

“He said he got caught in the rain before it turned to sleet.”

“Bullshit.”

“Maybe. But I can’t arrest a guy for having dirty shoes after a storm.”

“He look nervous?”

“Annoyed. Not surprised.” Jake flips a page as the phone at the front desk rings. “Said if you keep accusing him, he’s getting a restraining order.”

I lean back. “Wonderful.”

The dispatcher answers the phone mid-ring. I miss when Ruby did that at the shop. Now, the damn thing just keeps ringing.

“He also suggested we should be looking at you.”